Sunflower
by Garrae
Summary: It's well known that a sunflower orients and opens to the sun. Surely in New Orleans, the city of magic, voodoo, music and food, Castle could find a way to open Beckett up? Written for the Sexto de Mayo Pornado. #NSFW #CastlePornado
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

 _Just as a sunflower oriented to the sun_ … he thought fancifully.

Sometime after they'd reached an accommodation – that was to say, Beckett was not threatening to shoot him _every_ minute of every case, and she'd actually begun to call him without Montgomery's minatory eye upon her to ensure that she did – Castle began to notice something which he found extraordinarily interesting.

For a further while, he wasn't sure that he'd really noticed it. It was subtle, unobtrusive – and undoubtedly it was totally unconscious. But gradually it also became more and more apparent. Very slightly – _very_ slightly, indeed barely there to the uneducated eye – her movements and alignment were adjusting to his. More interestingly still, she was aware of him: an instinctive sense of his position, of where to look to find him, of where his body was or of the next words from his mouth.

Just like a sunflower, she was orienting to him. _Unlike_ a sunflower, she was still closed, the petals of her personality still tightly furled and hidden. Castle didn't like her being hidden. Castle wanted her to come out of her infinite reserve and open to him. Having observed her unconscious alignment, he was extremely keen on finding some conscious alignment between them: to convince her to open up to him: mind, body and soul.

His chance came when she was sent not just out of Manhattan but right out of state. All the way to New Orleans, in fact. Surely in the city of magic, voodoo, music and food he could find a way to open her up?

"I don't wanna go," Beckett sulked. "I hate being out of state. It's all politeness and 'Hi, li'l lady' without any respect at all."

"Instead of 'Hands up, scumbag'?" Espo grinned. "Maybe you'll come back with some good ol' ladylike manners." He ducked as a pen whistled past the space his head had occupied a second previously.

"I'd love to see that," Ryan snickered from a very safe distance. Another pen became a missile.

"New Orleans is great," Castle interjected happily. "I can't wait."

"Who said you were going?" Beckett snapped. "We're not here to provide you with vacations."

"You chase criminals. I shadow you," he said with an irritatingly saintly expression. "It's not a vacation, it's a research trip."

Beckett made a noise which resembled an infuriated bobcat and turned to her papers with a huff. The three men smirked at each other, and collectively decided that the break room was a much better place to be than experiencing the toxic smoke cloud of Beckett's very bad mood.

Beckett, left alone to, well, sulk, glared viciously at her papers. She didn't like following the money trail at the best of times, and she didn't like going outside Manhattan much either. For work purposes, that was. She was pretty keen on going outside Manhattan and indeed the USA for vacations. For work, however, it meant being nice to other police forces and not having any authority without their permission and generally dealing with cops who didn't know her, far too many of whom judged on appearances.

She had, in the past, contemplated carrying the modern equivalent of a letter of introduction or recommendation setting out that she was a fully qualified Detective Second Grade with her shooting scores (second only to Espo, who had an unfair advantage, being an ex-sniper) and her professional record. Only the knowledge that prejudice was never countered by facts had stopped her. Well, that and sheer embarrassment. And anyway, cutting idiots off at the knees could be rather amusing, especially when the queries about her ability/competence/experience got back to Montgomery, who tended to deal with the questioner…um… _sharply_. That was always satisfying.

Still, she didn't want to go. Humph. She especially didn't want to go because she was quite certain that Castle would go too – legitimately or otherwise. The man was richer than Croesus and if she didn't let him follow her officially he would go along anyway just to spite her. He never left her in peace. He'd want to _do_ things. Sociable things (she was not sociable). Tourist things (she hated tourism. And tourists). _Together_ things. As if him shadowing her all the freaking time wasn't enough _together_ for anyone.

Going on a trip with Castle was a _bad idea_.

She absolutely did not think that it was a bad idea because she was hyper-aware of him all the time. She also didn't think that it was a bad idea because she loved – no, absolutely _not_ , that was a _bad_ word choice – the way his dumb idiot totally insanely crazy theories challenged her thinking and made her think better. And she certainly didn't think it was a bad idea because he was interesting. All those things were definitely not her thoughts. Absolutely _not_.

It was a bad idea because he was a pest. Purely and simply that.

So it was quite utterly and totally ridiculous that when Montgomery smirked his way out of his Captain's office to her desk, she didn't protest at all.

"So, Beckett, you and Castle will be going down to New Orleans. I've spoken to the Captain there – Lavelle – and there shouldn't be any trouble at all. You got two days with them, though if you don't need all of it that's okay."

"But sir, what about my other cases" –

"Oh, no need to worry. I've already reassigned them. Enjoy your trip, Beckett."

He slithered off. Then he turned back.

"Oh yes. I've looked at your overtime. You're taking an extra two days down there, as vacation. You need it. I don't want to see you back for at least four days."

He slithered away very quickly. Even his freaking _back_ was smirking at her. Beckett chomped down on an innocent pencil and contemplated the attractions of drawing and quartering, which would have the added benefit of clearing the promotion path. Not that she wanted promoted. Paperwork – ugh! The pencil suffered another vicious chomp.

"They don't taste good, you know. No nutritional value either." _Aaargh_. _Go away!_ "It's going to be really fun going to New Orleans." _No, it isn't_. "So many interesting things and places. The French Quarter is fabulous."

"We'll be staying in a cheap hotel outside the city limits," she snipped.

"Oh, no. I couldn't let New York's Finest suffer like that. We're in the Royal Sonesta. It's not five star" –

"Oh, how _will_ you cope?" she bit acidly –

"But it's quirky and original and it's on Bourbon Street" –

"So I'll get no sleep at all?"

"Can be arranged," he purrs. "I could keep you up all night."

Her glare should have sizzled a four-inch diameter hole through his sternum, and it was entirely unfair that it didn't.

"And I've already booked it until your leave runs out."

"You _what_?"

"I am" –

"I booked adjacent rooms," he said smoothly, "but I could change that to a suite if you like."

"You… you" –

"It's all booked. You'd better go pack."

" _What_?"

"I've made some reservations at nice restaurants, too. You'll love them. Better bring some nice clothes. Don't forget a swimsuit. There's a pool."

Beckett was quite sure she could live very happily without spending her precious vacation days in Castle's company. She was also quite sure that Montgomery, who was a sneaky matchmaking interfering meddling _menace_ , was listening and sniggering. The boys were not sniggering. The boys were outright laughing. At least, they were till they caught her eye. Laughter was abruptly replaced by trembling terror.

"I don't" –

"Don't have suitable clothes? Of course you do. That pretty blue dress is very suitable. Or maybe a sundress." His eyes went dreamy. "I can just picture you" –

"Shut up, Castle."

He pouted. "Anyway. It's all booked and we fly out tomorrow. I'll collect you about six a.m. Flight's at 8.30 from JFK. We'll be there by lunchtime."

He wandered off. That was possibly fortunate, since Beckett was contemplating torture, murder, and incineration, in any order that would inflict maximum pain. As soon as he was out of her sight, he bounced happily on his toes and dreamed a little dream of the infinite possibilities of the coming days. He was quite sure that some… um…proximity could be utilised in the most interesting ways. He had a very pleasant vision of Beckett in a sundress, covered in brilliant golden sunflowers which picked up those lovely golden flecks in her eyes, and dawdled home (because staying in the precinct would surely find him shot) to pack his own bag.

Beckett stomped home, some considerable time later, in a foul temper made even worse by the knowledge that she had to pack and worse, since she had no intention of looking like a panhandler in any restaurant to which Castle was likely to go, pack appropriate wear. Two varieties. She would be working the other two days. And evenings. And she was absolutely _not_ taking the blue dress. While she packed, she amused herself by reviewing all the myriad ways in which she could commit untraceable murder, firstly of Castle and secondly of Montgomery. She'd reached fifty different methods (Fifty Ways To Kill Your Captain? she wondered) before she'd even finished packing her underwear. It didn't make her feel much better.

She humphed and harrumphed her way through the remainder of the evening and into bed, and wished that she could 'forget' to set her alarm. If it hadn't been for the case, she would have.

* * *

Waking up early was painful, despite the fact that she woke around that time most mornings. If she'd been going to the precinct, she'd have jumped out of bed. Since she wasn't, she muttered and grumbled and didn't exactly feel like hurrying. Consequently Castle was rapping on the door only a second after she'd zipped her bag shut.

"Ready to go?" he asked sunnily. She growled. "Ah, you haven't had your coffee yet. How fortunate that your usual order is waiting in the car for you."

He picked up her bag. "Let's go."

She followed him, grumbling all the way down, which made not a whit of a dent in Castle's relentless and annoying cheerfulness. Mornings were not for being cheerful, in Beckett's extremely jaundiced opinion. Mornings were for scowling into her coffee until she'd had enough caffeine to make her neurons fire. Cheerfulness before nine a.m. should be grounds for capital punishment.

In the cup holder in front of her was a large go-cup containing her usual order. "Thank you," she emitted, and buried her nose in it.

"Seatbelt."

"Coffee."

"Seatbelt or I'll take it away."

The seatbelt clicked in, with an accompanying noise which, translated, might have been _touch my coffee and you die right now_. She returned to scowling at the coffee and ignoring the world around her. Castle, very sensibly, declined to talk to her, sipping his own coffee and watching the early morning pass by the car window.

At the airport, Beckett had had almost enough caffeine to get through to the departure gate without mishap. Castle, a careful two steps behind her, watched the sway of her hips with appreciation and didn't make the mistake of commenting. Blood on the airbridge would have been very disconcerting to the other passengers, and he was intending to get to New Orleans in one piece. He had plans for them. Lots of plans, which depended upon his being intact when they got there.

"What's this?"

Ah. She had finally looked at her boarding pass.

"That's what's technically known as a seat number," he said sweetly.

"The NYPD won't cover that!"

"No, I am."

"No you're not."

"Already did," he pointed out unanswerably. "I don't fit in the little seats."

"Try cutting down on the cheeseburgers," she sniped.

"Nasty. I am the perfect weight for my height. I'll be happy to trade gym stats with you any time." He grinned. "After all, we should have a couple of days." The grin mutated to wolfish. "I'll be happy to show you my press-ups." Beckett turned a very pleasing shade of scarlet. Interestingly, the little gold flecks in her eyes had appeared.

"Not necessary," she snipped.

"Your loss. Or are you scared that I'm fitter than you?"

"No!" she flashed back. "When you can run faster than me for longer, then I'll worry. I'll worry that my leg has fallen off."

Castle laughed. "I'll pick it up for you. Or pick you up." He thought for a second. "That was dirtier than I meant it to be. Though picking you up would be a really good plan however it sounds."

"You tried it. With lines that were older than the dinosaurs and it failed then too."

He shrugged. "That was then. Now you've had a chance to appreciate my charm, wit and ruggedly handsome personality, you're changing your mind."

"I am not," she spluttered.

"This is your seat. In you go."

He steered her in with a warm palm over her back, and ignored all black mutterings. She flumped down, and glared out of the window at an innocent 747 at the next gate. Much to Castle's amazement, it didn't explode or crumple, though he would have sworn that it cringed a little. He settled himself comfortably and happily opened up a game on his (flight safe mode enabled) phone. Beckett continued to glare out of the window, in which pursuit she occupied herself throughout taxiing and take off. Those over, and a cloud cover which prevented her watching the earth turn beneath the wings, she produced her phone, tapped her Kindle app, and resolutely ignored both Castle and the rest of the passengers. She did manage politeness to the cabin crew, which produced coffee.

Castle, strange to say, was entirely unbothered by Beckett's behaviour. Quite apart from anything else, he'd become rather good at Beckett-reading over the past months, and that sort of sulking only happened when he'd got to her. Usually that meant when she was fighting herself. Perfect. She couldn't fight herself for ever. Or, equally attractive, she'd fight herself to a standstill and he'd catch her as she collapsed.

Beckett stared out of the window and at her Kindle app, barely reading. Castle, even in a business class seat, was far too close for her peace of mind – and body. She could catch a faint whiff of aftershave every time he moved, and it went straight from her nostrils to her core. Even if it was totally unnecessary and showing off his quite inordinate riches, it was likely just as well they weren't stuffed into two economy seats, when they'd be rubbing shoulders, arms, and probably thighs as well.

That would be intolerable. ( _Intolerably erotic_ , a little brainworm insisted, and was ruthlessly ground into mush under the heel of Beckett's denial.) At least there was a reasonable space between them. She was very pleased about that. Really.

When he passed her coffee to her, with a blinding smile for the crew member, Beckett was sure that he deliberately flickered over her fingers as he released the cup. Of course the tiny tingle was sheer irritation. She turned back to her book, and read a whole ten pages through the three plus hours of the flight. Castle, she decided with what she told herself was irritation, was distracting her.

Disembarking the plane, she was equally irritated (definitely irritated. Not aroused. No) by Castle's broad handspan across her back through the airbridge. She was perfectly capable of steering herself through a narrow corridor. She didn't think about how she'd been in the perfect position to be touched just like that. She also didn't think about the odd sensation that something was missing when he dropped his hand from her. She was too busy being irritated that there was a car already waiting for them. What was wrong with getting a cab anyway? She stared out of the car window all the way to the city.

"Here we are," Castle announced. "Beckett! Earth to Beckett."

"Uh?"

"We're here. Royal Sonesta. Isn't it great?"

Beckett regarded it critically, and made a non-committal sound. Castle regarded _her_ critically, and then smirked. "You love it." She didn't say a word. "You _so_ do. You just won't admit it."

"I guess it's quite pretty," Beckett forced out. Actually, she loved it: ironwork balconies on deep red brick, arched doorways. She wasn't admitting it to Castle, though.

Inside was also beautiful. Beckett stared round while Castle took care of check-in – she'd tried, but since the sneaky rat had put the reservations in his name she couldn't do anything about it – and was, despite herself, impressed by the cool, pale marble. She wandered a little, and spotted the pool. That would be just perfect for early morning exercise: a nice change from running. She hadn't had the impression that the French Quarter was really a good place in which to run – narrow sidewalks and too many people and stray street musicians. She might have been distracted by the music.

"Beckett," Castle said, from right behind her. She jumped. He was so close that she barely missed him. "Daydreaming, Detective? Awww. I hope you were dreaming about me."

"No," she flipped back. It wasn't entirely truthful, because she'd been wondering – nope, not wondering at all, absolutely not – what he might look like in swim trunks.

His eyebrows waggled in disbelief, but he didn't comment.

"Keycard," he offered. "Adjacent rooms, just like I said." He regarded her, eyes crinkling. "You don't look very happy. Did you want a suite instead? I can change it. I certainly wouldn't mind sharing."

"No, thanks," she said briskly. "You'd spend too much time in the bathroom in the morning." She picked up her own bag. It was instantly removed from her by a smart bellboy, who disappeared before she could say anything.

"Come on. You'll want to tidy up before we go to the NOPD."

" _I_ am going to the NOPD. You are not. I don't have permission for you to go so you can't come."

Castle pouted, ineffectually. Well. It had no effect on the lack of permission for him to follow Beckett into the NOPD. It had a ridiculous effect on her brain, which slipped straight from its normal _stop irritating me Castle_ mode into _mmm his lips are really nice_. She rammed it back into its common sense cage.

Castle wasn't actually that bothered about following Beckett to the NOPD, mainly because he knew that it was all about paperwork and the money trail, neither of which were interesting at all. What was interesting, though, were his other plans, all of which were now in full operation. He'd already made two dinner reservations, for the two vacation nights. However, that left breakfasts, music and that night. He also hadn't missed Beckett staring at the pool. She'd need to park that, though, since it wasn't open before seven and closed at sundown. Shame. He'd have loved a little late-night dipping. He carefully didn't think the word _skinny_ in that sentence, but his body heard it all the same.

"Okay," he said amiably. "I'll just wander round until you're done. Dinner will be at seven, though, so you might wanna be back in time to get ready."

He stepped out the elevator in time to avoid the mutilation of his ear that was approaching and whipped into his room, noting with some pleasure the connecting door. He unlocked his side, very quietly. He didn't want there to be any reason that, in the presently unlikely event Beckett might want to visit him, she couldn't. Her door closed behind her.

Beckett unpacked, washed her hands and face, remembered her manners and tapped on the connecting door.

"Come through," Castle called.

"I'm off to NOPD. See you later," she informed him. Seconds later he appeared from his own bathroom, shirtless and rather damp around the edges of his hair. She frankly stared. She didn't mean to. She really _hadn't_ meant to. But a topless, tousled Castle had gone straight to her loins. Her head had absolutely nothing to do with her reaction.

"Uhhh… see you later," she gasped, retreated in disorder and, totally flustered, decamped at speed for NOPD's headquarters. She was so discombobulated that she didn't even grab a coffee on the way.

Behind her, Castle regarded the shutting connecting door with considerable interest. That had been entirely unexpected… but not precisely unplanned. He hadn't expected Beckett to come through; he'd expected a text which he would have received once he'd washed up, but he'd certainly ensured that if she did come in he was in a position to… um… impress her with his muscular torso and broad shoulders.

Oh boy, had she been impressed. Stunned. Flaming cheeks, dilated eyes, bitten lower lip and all. If she hadn't had to hightail it out to the local cops, he doubted that she would have moved. He would have moved. Oh yes. Moved on her, for sure.

The evening had suddenly got a _lot_ more interesting.

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers._

 _This story arose from a prompt by Mobazan27._

 _It's a Pornado story, so the plot is, er, slim and the rating is justified. As this is the opening chapter, it's posted today in preparation for Pornado weekend, which is this weekend (4-6 May)._

 _Posting will be on the usual Thu-Sun-Tue schedule. Thursday postings will be a little earlier than the usual 2pm EST._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Beckett returned from NOPD headquarters with a considerable sense of professional satisfaction at having completed her work in short order, which was wholly overridden by a considerable sense of personal embarrassment at her reaction to Castle. It wasn't as if she hadn't seen nicely put together torsos before. She had. Plenty of them. She had also seen handsome faces with very attractive mouths. Plenty of them, too, sometimes attached to the nicely put together torsos.

She just hadn't been stunned with complete lust by them.

She sternly told herself off. That was Castle, shadow and pest. She wasn't attracted to him. Not at all. And yet the picture of him shirtless, slightly damp and tousled, as if someone (who was definitely not her) had pushed his button-down off his shoulders and run shower-wet hands through his hair just before leaning in to kiss him – no! She wouldn't think such ridiculously stupid thoughts. Those thoughts should leave her brain forthwith. She now had three full days in which she shouldn't have been thinking them at all.

Those thoughts were extraordinarily disobedient and persistent, and entirely failed to leave her brain forthwith or indeed leave at all. Her shower didn't dislodge them, her moisturiser didn't dispel them (anything but: it introduced a whole set of new thoughts around large, warm hands rubbing it in), and sliding on the slinky, lacy, sheer silk underwear that matched the slinky, silky slip dress that she would have to wear tonight (when she hadn't planned for a smart dinner at all) _certainly_ didn't force them to leave.

It was entirely unfair that not only would the man himself not stop following her around, but that the vision of his half-naked body wouldn't stop impinging itself on her mind. And she was definitely not wondering what the other half would have looked like. No. Way.

She fluffed her hair into smooth waves, reapplied the lip gloss she'd just bitten off her lip, and picked up her purse, in which, as ever, were her shield and gun. It was too warm for a wrap or jacket. She tapped on the connecting door, and waited to be invited in.

"Hey, Beck – oh."

Castle's voice broke as he took in the full effect of her dress. "Wow," he managed. "You look gorgeous." He recovered his game. "Ready to go?"

"Yep."

He couldn't have resisted if he'd tried – and he didn't try. He prowled behind her till she reached the door of his room, and then, after she exited, drew her hand over his arm in old-fashioned courtly style. If he'd thought he could get away with it, he'd have slipped his arm round her waist, rested his hand on her hip, and brought her in against him where he was sure she'd fit perfectly.

"There," he smirked.

"What?"

"Courtesy, Beckett. Ensuring you don't trip in your heels."

"I never trip."

"There's always a first time. I'd hate to see those legs in plaster."

"You won't."

"So I'll get to see them out of plaster? I _knew_ you liked me."

That wasn't what she meant. She was quite sure Castle knew that wasn't what she meant, too. However, trying to argue would, she was also quite sure, result in her being tied up in knots and somehow being lured into admissions she didn't mean. ( _Tied up_? said a naughty little piece of her mind. She squished it flat.)

As they exited the elevator she realised her hand was still trapped on his arm. She thought about tugging it clear, but then noticed the gaze of the people around them and declined to be thought unmannerly. She'd remove it in a moment.

Somehow she still hadn't removed it when they left the hotel.

"Where are we going?"

"It's a surprise," Castle said childishly. "But not far."

"In that case I don't need to be propped up," she humphed, and took her hand off his arm.

It was instantly replaced by the same arm sneaking around her waist.

"I said, I don't need propped up."

"What if I do?"

"You what now?"

"I need propped up. That dress has made me all weak at the knees."

"Weak in the head, maybe," she snarked. "You don't look as if you're falling at my feet to me."

"Later, Beckett. I'll fall at your feet later. If you'd wanted that now, you should have told me and I'd have put the reservation back an hour."

"It takes the ER more than an hour to patch things up."

"Now you're just wilfully misunderstanding. See, kneeling at your feet I'd be the perfect height to" –

"Shut up," she bit, cheeks flaming.

Castle smirked devilishly, and thought to himself that Beckett was already knocked off her game. She hadn't denied that she'd been thinking naughty thoughts. Mmmmm. She hadn't ever admitted that before, even tacitly. He kept his arm round her waist and absolutely didn't squeeze her into his chest, though the delicate scent of her perfume (he assumed it was perfume) was totally alluring.

They walked into the NOLA restaurant with Beckett, lost in her own head, still wrapped within Castle's arm. She didn't realise, much to his amusement and not a little arousal, that she was enclosed until the host took them to their table and Castle pulled out her chair for her before the host could.

It swiftly became apparent that his reason for doing so had nothing to do with manners and plenty to do with the opportunity for him to run his hands over her shoulders and sides as he did, finishing off with a faint brush over her hips which wasn't there enough for her to object but left her dampening in entirely unwanted reaction.

He took his own seat, and appeared to concentrate on the menu. Beckett did the same, but the little flames of colour were still dancing on her cheekbones, and her eyes were darkened.

"Wine? Beer? I know," Castle bounced, "Cocktails. We can't be in New Orleans and not drink cocktails." He signalled to a server and obtained a list. "Oh, look. There's the perfect cocktail."

Beckett skimmed the list. He had _got_ to be kidding. How'd he managed that? Only Castle could fall into a restaurant and achieve that result. Well, she was not drinking –

"Thanks. Two Pretty Ricky cocktails," Castle was saying to the server, who turned back to the bar. "Don't you think that's appropriate?"

"You…"

"It would be better if it said Ruggedly Handsome Ricky, but it's close enough." He grinned lazily. Beckett appeared to be on the verge of explosion.

How had this happened? Her brain was exploding. She'd been dragged out to a high-end restaurant without so much as a by-your-leave – and she hadn't had the sense to object and go find a nice simple burger and fries. She'd been brain-boggled by Castle in no shirt, he'd been _touching_ her, which he was simply _not allowed_ to do, all the way here, and then he'd compounded his sins by stroking her back and she could still feel _that_ stroke all the way down her body. And even worse, not only had he sandbagged her into drinking a drink that he would undoubtedly use to 'prove' that she thought him handsome, the damn cocktail tasted good too.

It was surely the damn cocktail's fault that his eyes looked a brighter, warmer blue than usual. She glared at the menu (which, naturally, all looked utterly delicious. She chose her dessert first and then planned the rest around that, as all sensible people did). It concealed the fact that this didn't feel at all like a meal on a case. For a start, it was in a restaurant, not take-out at her desk or a quick trip to Remys. She was dressed up. In a dress. Which meant that Castle would be able to appreciate her legs. The previous time he'd seen her legs he'd barely taken his eyes off them. She had no idea why she hadn't brought a pair of dress pants and a nice top. (Her annoying little brainworm, which should still have been dead, said _yes you do_. _Access_. She ground it under her metaphorical stiletto, again. Resurrection of brainworms was not required.)

The table was a little too small, Beckett decided. Every time Castle picked up his drink, he managed to brush a finger against her hand. When the appetisers arrived, he looked so pathetically at hers, it was untrue.

"Do you want to share?" she snipped.

His eyes lit up. "Sure I do. They" – she heard _you_ , which was ridiculous – "look delicious." He whipped one of her crab boulettes from her plate and replaced it with a piece of his alligator sausage. "Wow. That tastes fabulous. Creamy and smoky and gorgeous all at once." His voice and mouth became lazily seductive, and from the way he licked his lips and the heat behind his eyes she didn't think that he was only talking about the food. His tone slithered smoothly down her skin and seeped in. She was sure he never used that deep, sexy tone in the precinct. She was also sure that it shouldn't be pooling hotly between her legs. It must have been the cocktail.

Castle was exceedingly pleased with the success of the first phase of his campaign. He'd got Beckett out on a _date_. His tiny, barely-there touches were keeping Beckett just confused enough to stop her auto-pilot annoyed reaction to him, which had left her rather adorably bemused and (from the slight dilation of her pupils) somewhat aroused. He pulled the same _can-I-try-some-of-that trick_ with her entrée and then, with much more difficulty, her dessert, playing her at her own cool-sexy game (he had _not_ forgotten _you have no idea_ when she should have _kissed_ him instead).

"I love new tastes," he said, as he drew the cleaned dessert spoon from his lips and licked them. Beckett's eyes followed the tip of his tongue, and her own tongue mimicked his. "New experiences and feelings." He held her gaze. "Sometimes you find the most unexpected excitement, right when you weren't looking for anything."

"Really?" she tried to snark. "Personally, I think you have to plan if you want something."

"Do you always plan? How… organised."

She really wished that hadn't sounded like _how boring_. She was not boring. Just… organised.

"I've always preferred spontaneity. So much fun just to let the moment take you." His eyes widened. "That's what we'll do, Beckett. We're going to be spontaneous. You'll love it."

It wasn't spontaneous. Castle had planned this very carefully and had worked the conversation to a point where Beckett was likely to mention planning and her organised nature. It had, to be sure, happened remarkably quickly – he'd thought it would take until tomorrow, and blessed the cocktail – but since he'd got there he was going to take full advantage.

"I don't" –

"We'll start with the music. We can't be in New Orleans without hearing the music. We'll go to the Jazz Playhouse – you like jazz, don't you?"

He was already dealing with the check. Beckett sat, open-mouthed. "Jazz?" she queried faintly.

"Yep," Castle enthused. "C'mon. It should just be really getting going, and it's in the hotel so if you're tired we can just quit." And just in case he could pull it off, he'd booked seats that afternoon, just like he'd booked the table before they arrived. Spontaneity was a lot better if…um… one was prepared.

He rose, all ready to go, and extended a hand to her. Suddenly, she stood.

"Okay, then. Let's try this… spontaneity. Though I think it's a totally fallacious concept."

"Say that again," Castle oozed. "Oh, Beckett. Say _fallacious_ again."

"No. Stop drooling. It's not attractive."

"What would be attractive?"

"Silence."

"You mean you don't want to go to the jazz club?"

"No, I love jazz," she said.

"Obviously you don't want silence, then. You're just being mean."

Beckett blinked. "I am not."

"Are so," he replied childishly. "You don't want silence, you're just being mean and not talking to me."

"That's not true."

"That's mendacious. You shouldn't tell fibs. It's naughty." Castle grinned. "You need to make up for it."

"What?"

"Make it up to me. You were mean, now you have to make up for it."

She stopped walking and stared at him. Castle quirked an eyebrow, and smiled lazily.

"Traditionally, hurts are soothed by a kiss."

She froze. But he wasn't dead or mutilated. Yet.

"But I'm not a child." The expression on his face was thoroughly adult, in fact. "So a kiss wouldn't be appropriate."

 _What?_ It was _Castle_ , who'd been making it clear for months that he wouldn't need a second invitation to tumble her into his arms, mouth and preferably bed. And now he was saying kisses weren't appropriate?

Not that she wanted to kiss him, of course. So she shouldn't have been staring at his mouth, which was, as she looked, full-lipped and soft. It would have felt so good on hers – _no_! That was just wrong.

Wrong, but oh, _so_ appealing. Damn that cocktail.

"I'll settle for a drink."

"Drink?"

"Yeah. We'll go for a drink. Since you finished the money trail and sent it back to Ryan, we'll do it tomorrow." The lazy smile slipped back on to his face. "I get to choose where."

"Fine," she clipped off, and began to march towards the hotel. Castle caught up, ensured she couldn't see his smug smile, and compounded his one-up-ness by sneaking his arm around her waist. No doubt because the sidewalk was narrow, she couldn't shove him away.

She tapped his encircling arm crossly. "What are you doing?"

"Restoring my equilibrium after you were mean."

"You're milking it, Castle."

"Me? I never take advantage. Unless I'm asked to, of course. Would you like me to?"

She made a wordless noise of annoyance, while Castle happily preserved his arm in place. She felt so particularly perfect wrapped within his grasp.

"That's not an answer, Beckett. Use your words," he added annoyingly. "Ow!" As entirely expected, she'd elbowed him. "You'll need to make that up to me, too."

"I will not."

"We're here," Castle changed the subject, and failed to mention that she'd spent the whole of the short walk cuddled into him. For someone who wasn't shy of threatening to shoot him for the slightest infraction, she was conspicuously failing to threaten him at all now.

Beckett was totally, utterly and hopelessly confused. Castle had bait-and-switched more often than she did in Interrogation, and the cocktail had softened the sharp edges of her normal razor-blade thinking. But… he didn't want a kiss? _She_ had to make things up to him? This was totally unfair. _She_ did the play-it-cool and ignore the heat – what? There was no heat. _Liar_ , said her brainworm, which most unreasonably wasn't dead. _There's enough heat for a California forest fire. You were eyeing up his mouth. And just remember your reaction to him shirtless. You were ready to jump him right there._

She stalked into the hotel lobby and glared around till she spotted the directions to the Jazz Playhouse, and then marched in that direction.

"You need to have me."

Her cheeks flared.

"I've got the reservations," he said, and smirked knowingly, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. Which she wasn't thinking. Not at all. It was quite ridiculous. Just as ridiculous as the odd feeling that something was missing, and that the missing something was his arm around her. He came up alongside her. "Over there."

Over there proved to be a red toned room with small tables, to one of which Castle led them and gestured her to sit, politely holding her chair for her. He then planted himself next to her and smiled. "Drink?" A host ghosted up with menus containing yet more brain-blitzing cocktails. Brain-blitzing sounded good right now, especially when she spotted cocktails containing caffeine. Perfect.

"An Eartha Kitt, please."

"I'll have a Satchmo, please," Castle added. The host ghosted off again, and shortly their drinks arrived. Beckett relaxed into the music and the alcohol, and definitely _not_ into Castle.

A few minutes later, she failed to notice that her relaxation had relaxed her into a soft alignment very close to Castle. So close, in fact, that she was within an inch of brushing thighs. She also failed to notice that she was swaying in time with the music, perfectly matched to Castle's motion. Totally absorbed, she lost herself in the sounds, and only came out when she was gently tapped on the cheek.

"Wanna go outside and stargaze?"

"Huh?"

"We can go out into the courtyard. See the stars, and still hear all the music." _And we could do a little swaying to that music._

She had no good reason to say _yes_ except that the music and cocktail had made her happy. She shouldn't even have considered saying _yes_.

"Yes," she said, and rose with a sashay to sway out of the doors to the courtyard, under the stars and the moon.

Castle didn't hesitate to draw her into his arms, swaying gently to the jazz rhythms. It was hardly dance music, but he'd take any method of bringing her close, and she'd been loose and eased ever since the music began so he probably wouldn't get killed for doing it.

Not only was he not dead, she was moving gently in his arms, her head on his shoulder, perfectly aligned to him. Dancing, almost. It had _definitely_ become a date.

And every good date needed to include a kiss…

"Look," he said. _Are you ready, Beckett?_ "All the stars are out."

Beckett stopped swaying, took her head off his shoulder (he lamented, but it was in a better cause) and looked up. Castle, on the other hand, looked down, straight at her lushly beautiful mouth, and then leaned the fraction that would bring him there and kissed her.

The kiss was slow, and sensual, and undemanding.

Well, that had been the plan. If only he had remembered that the spark between them had been ready to blaze from the moment they first met and had been waiting for fuel ever since.

He couldn't stop himself demanding entrance, tightening his clasp around her, pressing closer. She opened to him as the sunflower to the sun, so that he took and raided and conquered: deeper and harder and firmer. Her hands locked in his hair as she let him possess as he pleased: receptive and giving as he took.

A particularly loud trumpet solo cut through Beckett's brain and recalled her to reality, being that they were in a public courtyard and making out like two sex-crazed teenagers. That was unacceptable. She drew back sharply. Castle growled and wrapped her back in.

"You liked that," he rasped. "So come back so we can do it some more."

"Public," she breathed. His face fell, then acquired a wolfish expression.

"So let's go somewhere private."

Beckett's body was screaming at her to agree. Beckett's brain was telling her that she ought to slow this down. Body and brain reached a compromise, largely centred around finding out what Castle's body and brain might do if provoked.

"And if I want to finish my drink?" she purred, and moved back towards their table with an indecently sultry swing of her slim hips.

"Sure you can," he murmured smoothly. "I can wait. Just like you'll be waiting." His hand quite blatantly wandered to rest on the bare skin of her leg, a fraction above her knee. It didn't move. The same could not have been said for the streaks of heat emanating from it, spreading like the petals of a sunflower from the centre of his palm. Those were tingling up and down her leg: sparking hotly through her veins and slithering along her synapses to heat and pool at her core. Her only consolation about her complete collapse into Castle-induced lust (which would never ever have happened if he hadn't quite unreasonably insisted on following her to New Orleans) was that a whisked glance at him showed that he was very clearly as wound up as she.

* * *

 _All places, cocktails, food and trips in this story are real. Yes, there really **is** a Pretty Ricky cocktail on the NOLA restaurant's menu. _

_Thank you to all readers and reviewers: old friends, new friends, named and guests._


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

The cocktail was truly wonderful. It was, therefore, a great shame that Beckett didn't take the time to appreciate it in tiny sips. She had, it was true, started with tiny sips of the remainder. They just hadn't stayed tiny, or indeed sips. As Castle's warm grip had entirely failed to move at all – and how did a man who fidgeted incessantly manage to stay still anyway? – somehow it had had the same flaring effect on her as some very intimate stroking would have done. She was already hopelessly liquid, and all her good intentions, irritation, and general snark had dissolved. In fact, she simply wanted him. However much she'd denied, evaded and eluded – she wanted him.

When his lips had touched down on hers every single reason for _not_ doing it had vanished. The only reason she'd not dragged him up the stairs to her room (or his) was that one last iota of good sense had said that total surrender would have meant that she'd be surrendering for the rest of her life, and Detective Kate Beckett, all-around badass, did not _surrender_. She _conquered_.

(The annoying little brainworm suggested that a bit of surrendering might be – er – interesting. Pleasurable. And erotic. Clearly the brainworm hadn't been killed dead enough. She had another try at murdering it.)

Mysteriously, her drink was finished. She eyed the glass suspiciously, though suspicion was almost totally drowned by lust. It was nonsensical. One (hot) kiss, two strong arms around her and a hand barely above her knee and she was swooning like some idiot Civil-War-era maiden who'd never been within ten feet of a man while unchaperoned in her life. She needed to get some game back fast.

And then his hand moved maybe half an inch northward and she forgot all about game, conquering, and anything that wasn't getting the hell out of there _right then_.

Unbelievably, his plan had totally worked. It had nearly killed him to go along with _finishing her drink_ (ha! She was trying to mess with him and it wasn't going to work), and keeping his hand still, when all he wanted to do was run it all the way up to see what it could do and find and touch and play with, was a specialised form of self-torture if not outright masochism – but it had totally _worked_. Totally. Because Beckett's beautiful eyes were dilated as far as they could go, obscuring the little gold flecks but even more arousing, and she was _hot_ for him.

"Are you done?" he asked, and moved his hand a smidgeon upward.

"Yeah," she breathed, barely loud enough to be heard over the music.

"Let's go, then."

As she stood, he wrapped her in with one hard, firm, possessive hand planted on her hip, close enough to touch all the way down their sides. By the end of this vacation, he intended that she should both be his and acknowledge it: stop the evasions and start a very different dance. He knew she'd start by trying to take control – she already had, after all – but he was as strong as she and there was a time and a place for suave assertion and her surrender.

That place was right there, right then.

He didn't touch her any further in the elevator, though they were alone, simply held her close in a way that accentuated his size and strength, projecting forceful, sexual masculinity in a way he'd never done in Manhattan. Raw need blossomed in her eyes, and yet (he had more self-control than he'd ever realised) he didn't start. Corridors were not the place to start.

He opened the door to his room, brought her in before him, kicked the door shut behind him, turned her round to him, and simply took her mouth without hesitation. He was sure, searching and utterly sexual: taking in a way he was certain would light her up and keep her there; exploring deeply, passionately; possession in every stroke of his tongue and the hard grip of his hands. She melted and flowed and curved against him: his hard-shelled badass Beckett unfurled, undone, opened. Just as he'd figured earlier, a little more assertiveness, a lot less playboy-clown, and she had fallen right into him. Funny how such an independent woman liked just a little strength… oh. How dumb could he be? She didn't want a weakling, of course she wouldn't – she'd never respect someone she thought she could walk all over: she wanted someone who'd stand up to her.

He was certainly standing up against her. So to speak. He pressed in harder, finding that she spread across the hard thigh; her skirt riding up and her hands clutching at the back of his neck; her body scalding against him and her mouth avid, drinking him down. The more he took the lead, the more she responded, and they were still barely inside the door, still only kissing, still just about within the bounds of something that could be ignored or forgotten.

He _wouldn't_ let this be ignored or forgotten. By the end of their sojourn she'd be _his_. No question. No argument. No doubt. He plunged back into her mouth, plundering as he pleased, pressing her into him, her breasts soft against his chest, but the nipples hard and peaked. He'd explore those, later.

Beckett had simply stopped thinking, lost in a fog of sheer lust and the effect of Castle's conversion into a much more assertive male than she'd ever thought he would be. His penchant for light flirtation and acting the clown had left her less than impressed, and a talent for fast talking with an ability to use words effectively hadn't cured it. His apparent talent for hard, forceful masculinity, on the other hand, had left her dazed, drugged, and desirous. Simply falling under his spell was the easiest thing she'd ever done.

She gave up all her resistance and, despite all her earlier resolution, surrendered. She no longer cared about whether she'd be surrendering for ever, as long as he didn't _stop_. His grip was firm across her back and sliding inexorably to her ass, his other hand kept her head to his and her mouth perfectly aligned, his broad body enveloped her and the thick hard mass against her told her everything about what he wanted.

Everywhere his now-roaming hand touched ignited. Heat? She'd had no idea. He was barely scraping the top of her ass, skimming her back, his palm grazing her hip, and she needed so much more. Small noises coalesced into "Touch me," breathed into his mouth, and she could feel the predatory smile form although his possessive kiss didn't falter. In his own good time, he lifted off, placed a leisurely line of little busses along her cheek, and investigated until he found a sensitive spot that made her squirm over his thigh and emit a tiny half-whimper.

"Touch you?" he whispered darkly. "I'm quite happy just kissing you. I like you like this: hot and squirming and so very, very responsive: not in charge at all." He nibbled delicately on her earlobe, and added a wicked flick into the shell. "I really like you not in charge," he growled gently, and found the jumping nerve again.

"Touch me," she tried to order, but somehow it got lost in a needy little noise.

"All in good time. Stop trying to plan." He stopped her incipient protest by taking her mouth all over again, exploring in a lazy, leisurely fashion that left no room for quarrelling, or indeed speech or thought. He pulled her even closer and held her there, so tightly against him that she could feel his heart beat. "Spontaneity is so much more fun."

Her hand slipped down to his back, pulling his fine cotton shirt loose from his pants, and sneaking up on to warm skin.

"Is that a hint?" he murmured. "Because you can't suborn me with stroking." That was not, in fact, true. His control was already strained, and her elegant hand on his flesh was _not_ helping. But as soon as he placed fingers on Beckett's bare flesh he knew it could explode, and he really wanted to have her hopelessly aroused before that happened. Not long, he told himself. He could resist that long. Not long and she would finally be all his. Once, he hadn't been possessive. Then he'd met Beckett, and found something he cared about as much as he cared about his writing.

"No?" she queried. "You feel pretty suborned to me."

She could still think? No, no, no. Thinking was _not_ the plan at all. Feeling. Sensing. Reacting. Definitely no thinking.

"Do I?" He slid his hand over her rear, learning the curves. She gasped. "You feel pretty suborned to _me_. Maybe I should do some more suborning. You seem to like it." His hand wandered over her: exploring carefully and never quite getting to anywhere significant; gliding over her thigh but tracing only the soft inner face; the skirt of her dress rose but he held her still as she tried to force friction against his leg. There was a frustrated mutter, but she wasn't moving anywhere but closer still.

"You do like it," he seduced. "You like being taken slow. Anticipating. Hoping I'll touch you." Deep, dark vibrations slithered into her ears and down her body. "Waiting makes it all so much better, and you kept me waiting all evening." _And for the last few months._ He had surely anticipated every last moment and inch of seduction. "So now I'll keep you waiting, right here." He kissed her again, hard, sure and deep: he couldn't resist her addictive mouth, the faint traces of the coffee cocktail, the scent of her hair and the fit of her lissom body against his.

Beckett wanted more. Kisses were all very well (kisses from Castle were wonderful, and if she'd known they'd feel like that she'd have invited them earlier) but all the repressed heat between them right from minute one was blazing up and kisses were _not enough_. She knew she was completely liquid, wholly ready: the muscles at her core fluttering and the need to have him pulsing hot within her – but he wasn't _touching_ her and she couldn't force him to because he was so much stronger than she would have believed: so much bigger and broader up close and extremely personal. She whimpered in frustration, and promptly wished she hadn't as his wicked, satisfied tones crept over her.

"Is there something you want? Someone?" His hand wandered across her back. "Sounds like you aren't getting your own way." The hand dropped to her ass, and she wriggled. "Feels like not getting your own way gets you hot."

 _No, it gets me annoyed_ , she wanted to say, completely untruthfully since she was scaldingly hot and only the teeth in her lip were preventing the desperate little moans that wanted to escape.

"I like you hot." She'd noticed _that_. "But the question is…" he paused significantly "… do I like deferred gratification more." _You freaking what now? Deferred gratification? Are you out of your mind?_

"Speak for yourself," she managed to force out. "I don't _need_ you there."

"But you want me."

There was no reason at all for him to sound so disgustingly self-satisfied. Apart from her irritating inability to control her voice, that was.

"So many possibilities…" His wicked, wicked tones stroked her as sensually as his hands might. "After all, you kept me waiting." His mouth took hers again, and his hands moved, glancing across her. Gradually, however, those same hands became more intent, more demanding, and began to encroach. She moved as his movements required, twisting and turning as his fingers learned her form and started to delineate soft curves, still outside the silk of her dress but shifting the fabric across her, teasing. Knowing, naughty fingers found the zipper and hook, and the dress parted down her spine to provide access to the satin-smooth skin of her back, the line of her vertebrae.

He'd stayed just about in control through the delicate flirting with the skin below her rucked-up skirt. He had. But then as the zipper susurrated open she gave a fractional shake of her shoulders and the whole beautiful silk shift dress fell off them to her waist to reveal her stunning breasts in an equally stunning ivory-cream lace piece of incarnate _sin_ because it surely couldn't be described merely as a _bra_ – and Castle lost all mind, control, and thought in one half-instant.

He stood her away from him for a brief moment for the dress to fall and puddle fluidly on the floor, surged back into her mouth with no gentleness at all: simply raw passion and desire and determination that she should never _not_ be his again, and sent his hands roaming every inch of her body: across her ass and through those gorgeous legs, sliding silk over sodden heat and taking pure male satisfaction from her frantic response.

Satisfaction was replaced by sheer sexuality as he moved down from her mouth, bending her back to give access to the swell of her breast, undid the bra's catch by touch and flicked the bra to join the dress. It had decorated her perfectly, but he'd rather it was decorating the floor. He licked around the nipple and then drew it into his mouth: suckling hard and eliciting short, desperate moans. Her hands were in his hair, knotting and tugging, forcing him closer but he couldn't have moved away under any coercion: not now that he had her in his grip. He was still fully dressed.

Primitive instincts and raging desire combined to keep him moving downward, dropping to his knees yet still supporting her writhing, open body as he approached the core of her need, open to him as he eased her panties down and off to leave her wholly naked: hot and wet and glistening: nothing in her mind or eyes but lust and his effect on her. His hands fell to her hips, holding her up: he leaned forward and drew his tongue across her and she shrieked and shuddered and came hard with just that one touch.

Of course, it wasn't enough for him. The whole set up: her naked in his grasp, wholly aroused and wound up, totally out of her near-infinite control, and all because of him; he still clothed and wholly in command of affairs – but she was so much more than any brief affair – once could never have been enough for him. Now he had her, he was keeping her.

And right now, he was going to keep her sky-high and screaming his name. If he'd been able to think past his primitive-male lust, he'd have been amazed at just how primitive he felt: how much he simply wanted to hold, take and possess that one woman – _his_ one woman.

He was so utterly _fucked_.

But first – so would she be.

She was still shuddering in aftershock, not yet come down (but oh-so-definitely- _come_ ) in the intervening instants: he was still kneeling with his face against her: her scent in his nostrils and her pale skin against the roughness of late-evening shadow where his cheek touched her inner thigh.

"Perfect," he breathed over her. "Perfectly mine." She moved against him, still gasping for air. He stood and simply scooped her up in his arms, took the couple of strides to the bed and dropped her flat on her back: stepped a single stride away and raked a hot, slow gaze across her. She was utterly gorgeous: a little flush across cream skin, curves measured to his hands, arousal shown in every inch and gleam of dampness on skin, between her legs, on her lips. She lay there lax and sated, eyes closed and lashes sweeping her cheeks.

Castle, having looked his fill, returned to sit on the bed and dance fingers lightly over Beckett's flat stomach, circling her navel, venturing north and south to tantalise her but not satisfy, working her up again. She writhed and then whimpered, and when he didn't touch her more intently her eyes opened and she took matters into her own evil hands.

Well. She _tried_. She even succeeded for a moment, palming over him and managing to half-undo his belt buckle. But then he trapped her wickedly curving fingers and held them firmly above her head with one broad hand, smiling lazily down at her.

"Uh-uh. You don't get to do that."

"Sure I do," she growled.

"Nope. I'm going to play. You're just going to enjoy it."

He stopped the protest by leaning down and kissing her again, taking time to explore and duel and finally bring her fight to conquer him to a standstill by running his free hand over the curve of her breast and rolling the nipple.

"You like that." He did it again. "Oh, yes. A little harder?"

"Isn't that supposed to – _ohhhh_ – be you?"

"I must be doing it wrong. You can still snark at me."

He lowered his head and took her breast deep into his mouth again. All snarking stopped, replaced by _more_ and then _Castle!_ and then no words at all, because she'd gone again.

"You do like that. _So_ much." He liked it too. He really liked this loved-up, sex-drugged Beckett naked and open to him: responsive and receptive and needing him. He loved how she lit up under his mouth and touch: he knew it would be hot, but not just how incinerating it would be: how they would both scorch and burn with each other.

He licked and sucked, tried a tiny nip and she bucked and if he hadn't still had her hands pinned in his he'd probably have lost hair or ears to the clenching of her fists against his grasp. He couldn't stop himself sliding down again; the slow, intent approach so that she knew exactly what he would do, but not when; nips and soft soothing so that she would rise and arch and he had to let go of her hands but they were clutching frantically at the covers and all she could say was his name and _more, more, don't stop more_.

Of course he wouldn't _stop_ , precisely, but frantic Beckett was utterly delightful and he could just about remember his long-range plan: keep her so high up that she'd never come down; keep her with him – only and simply and always keep her.

He slowed down further, kissing the soft face of her legs, whispering hot breath over soft neat curls and making her writhe, inhaling the rich scent and she was liquid, fluid, flowing over him as he lapped delicately at her to wind her hotter again. When her language turned heated, he grinned wolfishly and teased her nerves until her words dissolved: his tongue flickered and then retreated, slid through her slickness and savoured the taste and the movement and the noise and his total control over her and his tongue furled and drove into her as he _would_ do later with his whole body but there and then he'd take her with his tongue and bring her soaring to sweet surrender to him.

Opening her eyes was too much effort. She reached a hand out, found a broad body, managed a cross little noise that said body still had clothes on, and gave up consciousness as soon as she curled into it, safe, warm and sated.

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers: guest and logged in._


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

When Beckett opened her eyes, she was snuggled tightly against bare skin. That in itself was somewhat surprising, since she was fairly certain that when she'd closed them, she'd been tucked against fabric. A happily predatory rumble emanated from the wide, warm wrapping.

"Got you. And you've woken up. How nice."

A hand wandered possessively across her stomach. She wriggled slightly, and discovered bare legs entwined with hers. She also discovered a notable lack of boxer shorts and a notable presence of sizeable anatomy. The obvious solution was to wriggle again. So she did. Sizeable anatomy arose against her ass.

" _That's_ nice," she said with a further wriggle, purely for emphasis, and turned in his arms to run her hands over his cheeks and up into his hair. Control of his head achieved, she kissed him deeply, intending to regain some control of the (intensely pleasurable) fire between them.

Unfortunately, Castle proved not to be as controllable as she'd have liked, which came as something of a surprise despite the experience of the earlier part of the evening. Castle, in fact, while responding very satisfactorily to her kiss, sneakily and unfairly took advantage of having two free hands (she thought longingly of her service cuffs, most unreasonably sitting in her apartment back in Manhattan) to bring one of her long legs up around his waist and then rolled them both so that he was nestled firmly against her and moving tantalisingly.

" _This_ is nice," he purred. "Very nice indeed. You seem to be pretty happy to see me, Detective."

She would have replied with trademark snark, but he mischievously kissed her instead, and somehow she couldn't talk around the duelling tongues, and then she couldn't talk because he was sliding through her and still kissing her, and then when she tried to roll them back he lowered his chest on to her just enough to stop her moving at all.

"Nope," he decided. "I like this." His voice dropped to vice and villainy. "I like you right here under me in _my_ bed." He smirked. "I'd like you under me in your bed too."

"And if I want to be on top?" but she couldn't manage to make that convincing in any way because she was wholly aroused by the big man above her and against her and asserting his own sexuality in a very impressive fashion.

"But you don't." She pouted at his certainty, and again because (not that she was going to admit it) he was right. For now.

"You're happy like this. I'm happy like this. Let's stay happy." He moved again, and his breathing deepened. "Very happy." And moved some more. "Wanna be _really_ happy?"

"Huh – _ohhhhhh_."

"You sound pretty happy already. Maybe I should be happy too?"

"Ohhhh – yesssssssss," was all she could emit, as he touched her wickedly.

"So glad you agree," he said suavely, flexed once and thrust into her.

And then there was absolutely nothing in the universe but Beckett below him and around him and her taste and touch and scent and movement and then there was nothing at all.

When life returned to him, he found that Beckett was shoving at him.

"Uh?"

"Breath. Need some."

Oh. Okay. Ah. Maybe collapsing on top of her hadn't been the best thing. He rolled off, but made sure to take her with him so that she was conveniently snuggled up to his chest. And thighs. And all points between. She gave a contented sigh and lay totally relaxed with him, curled in the cage of his body: as easy and soft as a sleeping cat. Castle's eyes closed too, a casually possessive arm over her waist, his hand nestled between her breasts; spooned around her.

* * *

It was really just as well he'd set his alarm. He was deep in sleep when it shattered his cosy dreams and Beckett sat bolt upright.

"What the hell is that?"

"Alarm," Castle muzzed.

"Why?"

A very fair question. Why _had_ he set an alarm – oh yes. "Breakfast. Beignets. Not Café du Monde, it's full of foreign tourists and too busy. Somewhere else."

"Where?" she snipped.

"Go get dressed and you'll see," he said annoyingly as she slid out of the bed, which nearly scotched breakfast or indeed leaving the room at any time that day altogether. "Since, though I'd love it if you looked like that all day, we might draw a crowd."

"No chance," she bit. But her hips swayed enticingly as she went through the connecting door, which, very disappointingly, shut behind her. Castle raced through his own shower, shave, primping and dressing and was ready in far less time than usual. He wouldn't have put it past Beckett to drag him out half-dressed if there had been coffee promised.

Tapping on the connecting door produced a Beckett. It also produced a two-by-four strike to Castle's head, metaphorically speaking. He stared.

"Coffee," Beckett commanded, and when Castle simply stood and stared some more, jabbed him in the ribs with a sharp-nailed finger. "Coffee. Or I'll go myself."

That woke him. "No." He grabbed her hand. "You're coming with me."

"That was last night," she smirked. "Now I'm going to get coffee." She pulled towards the door.

"First, though…" He pulled her back, much more firmly, bound her in, tipped up her chin and kissed her hard. "Good morning," he said sunnily. "Let's go find some coffee."

No more than five minutes later they walked into a courtyard with statues of jazz musicians and a small kiosk-style counter at the far end: delicate wrought-iron tables and plenty of sunshine to bask in. Beckett dropped her sunglasses over her eyes and wriggled her shoulders happily.

"Sit down," Castle suggested. "I'll get us some coffee."

He returned a few moments later with coffees and two baskets piled with powdered sugar, under which Beckett could just about discern a shape.

"Beignets," he pointed out, and dug in. Two milliseconds later he was desperately trying to wipe sugar from his pants, and failing miserably. Beckett merely snickered and, learning by immediate experience, spread a napkin over the full skirt of her sundress. She wasn't entirely sure about those beignet things: Castle's whole-hearted endorsement of the s'morelette giving her considerable cause for concern in culinary matters.

Tentatively, she took a small nibble.

Not tentatively at all, her first beignet then totally vanished before she'd noticed she'd eaten it. They were _wonderful_. Possibly also a heart-attack in training, but _wonderful_. Almost as good as her coffee, of which she drank half in one glug.

"Cute," Castle grinned.

"What? I'm not _cute_."

"Oh?" He dropped his voice and acquired a rakish leer. "You were pretty cute curled up naked in my bed." It returned to normal. "Cute now is because you've got sugar on your nose." He leaned over and kissed it. "All gone."

Beckett fizzled and popped, and then sank her nose into her coffee and grumbled. Castle, having polished off his beignets in short order (even better than doughnuts, he decided), attempted a raid on Beckett's, and got his fingers smacked, not at all gently. He pouted.

"Hands off, Castle, if you want to keep those fingers."

"They're already damaged," he groused. Beckett was unmoved. "You smacked them."

"You told me you'd be happy if I spanked you."

"I didn't mean my _fingers_. And for the record, Detective, I wouldn't."

"You shouldn't say things you don't mean."

Castle's eyebrows rose. "Does that mean you _meant_ that you knew the difference between different types of bondage handcuffs? Because I would really, really like to hear that story."

"Nope."

"That's not fair."

"Nope."

"I'll just have to speculate."

"Yep."

Saying that was a mistake. Castle's eyes lit up and he acquired a very thoughtful, sexy smile.

"And then I'll need to test my speculations," he noted.

 _What_? But his expression and demeanour went straight to her core. In desperation, she munched on the next beignet, which scattered sugar all over the table, and, accidentally but amusingly, all over Castle, whose aggrieved face was some consolation.

After the beignets were disposed of and another coffee drunk, Castle checked his watch.

"Perfect," he said smugly.

"What?"

"Just time to saunter down to the paddle steamer. C'mon."

"Paddle steamer?"

"Sure. We've got three days' vacation, Beckett. The paddle steamer will be great. All the way down the rolling Mississippi River." He hummed a little snatch of a song. It sounded as if it was _Come on ev'rybody take a trip with me, down the Mississippi down to New Orleans_.

"But…"

"But vacation. You needed a break and we've got one. Spontaneity, Beckett!"

He tugged her up, slung his arm around her without apparent thought, and started them walking down towards the river. Perforce, her feet moved, perfectly in rhythm with his walk. _You fit very nicely in his arm_ , her annoyingly not-dead brainworm announced. She knew that. She simply didn't have to pay it any attention. Totally meaningless. _Not like last night, then_? the brainworm added, which was entirely unreasonable. _You really enjoyed last night. And I don't just mean the multiple orgasms. Though those were pretty spectacular too._

Beckett forcibly removed her attention from the annoying brainworm, who sounded far, far too much like Lanie for her peace of mind, and attended to the streets around her. They were, to be sure, very pretty: old-fashioned, full of interesting storefronts, and thronged with people. Attending to the streets meant that she wasn't attending to the warmth in her chest or indeed the heat rather lower down from Castle's suggestion about his speculations.

The paddle steamer was comfortable, the view pleasant, and the ride smooth. Castle, naturally, bounced around the boat to find out absolutely everything about it, and had last been seen surrounded by the huge pistons that drove the paddles, grilling some poor engineer until he'd practically crisped. Beckett had repaired to the uppermost deck, left her sunglasses down, and had basked in the Southern sunshine and heat until she was lightly toasted and thoroughly at ease with the world. She loved the sun, and if she had to take a vacation at least the one she'd been forced to take involved warmth. She closed her eyes and drifted into daydreams.

"Wake up, Beckett!"

No. No waking up. She was warm and cosy and comfy and didn't need to wake up, because she absolutely wasn't asleep. She stayed put.

Castle looked at the snoozing Beckett, smiled naughtily to himself, and tried a different tack. He planted a soft kiss plumb on the centre of her lips, and when soft didn't have quite the right awakening effect, kissed her a good deal harder. That worked.

For a given value of worked. Her hands came up to his neck, she tugged hard, and Castle needed all his strength not to fall on top of her. Instead, he gave her a gentle wobble.

"Wake up," he coaxed. "We're turning round and you're missing everything."

"Am not. I wasn't asleep."

He made a very sceptical noise.

"Wasn't," she said crossly.

Castle sat down next to her and most impolitely possessed himself of her hand without so much as a request. She ought to have told him off, or removed it, or used her nails to pinch him, or some such signal of her displeasure. She did precisely none of those things, and indeed compounded her own insanity by curling her fingers round his hand and humming contentedly. His chair shuffled closer until he could plop his arm around her sun-baked shoulders, at which gesture she hummed again and nestled in. Obviously vacations didn't count as normal time, since normally she'd have mauled his ear. In New Orleans, it seemed right, which probably meant that he'd found some voodoo practitioner yesterday when she was with the NOPD and had had a spell put upon her. That was likely it. So when they left New Orleans the spell would wear off and everything would return to normal.

Which meant, in Beckett's convoluted illogic, that nothing she did there would have any relation to reality in Manhattan.

Therefore it was a perfectly good idea to nestle in very closely and then kiss Castle's smooth-shaven neck, because it wouldn't matter when they got home. What happened in NOLA, stayed in NOLA.

(The brainworm, _still_ not dead no matter what she did to it – pouring gas on it and lighting it might work, she thought – piped up again. _Who are you kidding?_ it asked. _By the time you get out of here you won't want to let him out of your bed. Especially when he can do that thing with his mouth…again._ )

He jumped, squeaked, and then, looking at her with midnight eyes, growled softly deep in his chest. His arm tightened on her, but although he gazed at her as though he wanted to pounce, he refrained. Instead, he leaned down, and murmured into her ear, "We'll get to that later. I'm still speculating."

The blush was unstoppable.

"We could speculate together," he added, and her skin scorched.

Fortunately, the PA system pointed out the casino and other points of interest. _Unfortunately_ , Castle continued to murmur. "Like that thought?"

"No. I don't deal in speculation. I deal in evidence."

"Indeed you do. I'm quite happy to search out the evidence with you."

"That's not appropriate," she snipped.

"You always say that when you can't think of a better answer. But as it happens, I agree."

She gaped at him.

"It certainly wouldn't be appropriate on a paddle steamer." The blush returned at full strength. "Which is docking, so we should get off."

For some reason Beckett heard a _you_ inserted in the final sentence. She ignored her disobedient hearing and the equally disobedient, unkillable brainworm.

"Let's go for a walk," Castle bounced, seemingly oblivious to her blushes. Beckett had no assurance that that very desirable state of affairs would continue. "We could get ice-cream. Or – I know! –pralines. Pralines are delicious. Sweet, rich, and gorgeous. Just like me."

Beckett couldn't help the disgusted noise, although it would have been fair to say that she didn't try very hard, or indeed at all, to stop it. Her huffing didn't stop Castle tucking her in and perambulating along Decatur Street, resisting her attempt to stop at Café du Monde, which produced more humphing and complaints about Beckett's lack of further beignets and, crucially, coffee, as far as the Southern Candymakers store, in which Castle purchased an entirely ridiculous quantity of candy – _pralines_ , Beckett! Not candy – and continuing on to Latrobe Park.

Latrobe Park was small, cute and pleasantly shaded by trees. Castle, who had still not lost contact with her, theatrically brushed off a bench and invited her to sit, whereupon he wrapped himself back around her and dived into one of the many bags of pralines.

"Try it," he enticed. "They're delicious."

"They're neat sugar. How do you have any teeth left?"

"I brush and floss regularly," Castle grinned. "Now try them. You'll love them."

"Okay, I love them," Beckett said a second later through a mouthful of praline – and swiped them from Castle, who protested loudly.

"They're _mine_."

"Mine now," she smirked, right up until he snitched them all back and held them right away from her. She humphed at him.

"If you're good, you can have another one."

"And if I'm _very_ good, do I get another two?" she flicked back with a very naughty look, lick of her lips, and swallow. Castle went a satisfying shade of puce and choked on his candy. She patted him on the back, briskly. Fairly briskly. Well, nearly briskly. And it absolutely wasn't a stroke at all. Much.

Once recovered, Castle's inability to retain focus on anything for more than half a second kicked back in ( _he focused on you for a lot more than half a second_ , whispered the brainworm) and he started to look around. Shortly, his eyes lit upon the Pepper Palace, and he bounced up, dragging Beckett (who was intending to follow not Castle, but the pralines) with him.

It was like watching a five-year-old in a toy shop. There was more bounce than Tigger. He ricocheted from one shelf to another, picking up and putting down, spotting something new, and then being distracted by the next bottle. He was practically squeaking with delight, plotting recipes and all manner of canapes, buzzing like a demented bee. Beckett stood back and watched the cabaret.

"Ooohhhh, look!" She did, and despaired, rolling her eyes. "This looks wonderful. I have to try it." He brandished a bottle of _Hitching Heat Hot Sauce_.

"Are you sure?" she said cynically. "You might not have a throat afterwards."

"Sure I will. Besides which, I can't turn down something clearly made for us."

"Us? You're on your own with that." He pouted. Beckett remained impassive. Pouts did not affect her. ( _not much they don't_ , said the brainworm cynically. _You think they're cute_.) "I like my taste buds." She elbowed him before the clearly inappropriate comment on his (no doubt soon-to-be-non-existent) tongue exited his mouth.

"But it is, Beckett. It's called _Heat_. It's _obviously_ us."

"No _us_. You. I'm not going near it." She took a step back, to point her moral.

"Wuss," Castle said, to no effect, and promptly tried a taste. "Holy shit, what _is_ that?" emerged from his scarlet, coughing, unhappy face, eventually. Beckett sniggered. He spluttered and hacked and appeared to try very hard not to let his head explode. She snickered. "Where's your" – violent coughing – "sympathy?"

"I told you so," she said, very unsympathetically. There was a short pause, in which Castle's indignation was manifest but, as a result of his crimson-faced coughing, unvocalised. "We could get ice-cream," she eventually offered, trying to stop snickering. He nodded, frantically.

Shortly, Beckett had purchased two ice-creams, and in a fit of unprovoked niceness, made sure that Castle's was a soothing mix of chocolate and vanilla, both of which she was aware were favourites of his. She, on the other hand, indulged herself in mint choc chip (which Castle loathed) and rum-and-raisin, and insisted that they added coffee. Castle made it clear, largely through gesture and expression, that his was to be _iced_. None of that removed Beckett's smug, _I-told-you-so_ grin.

Coffee (iced or otherwise) and ice-cream consumed, Castle had recovered the power of speech. Mostly, he was using it to marvel at the hot sauce. Occasionally, it marvelled at the beautiful weather. Finally, it said something which was relevant to Beckett.

"And I've made a reservation for tonight at the Royal House."

"When did you do that?"

Castle smirked secretively. "Does it matter? The menu is fabulous and you won't have to get dressed up – though you can if you want and I'm sure I'd love it, like last night." He admired her, rather obviously. "I like you in a skirt."

Beckett declined the bait. "What time is dinner?"

"Seven. We've got lots of time. I know!" he said happily. "We'll go to the Mardi Gras museum. We haven't time to go to the National World War II Museum – if you want to see it?" he said very hopefully.

"Okay." She couldn't say she was massively enthusiastic, but Castle obviously wanted to, so she played along.

"It'll need a whole day. We could do that tomorrow. But let's go to Mardi Gras now. We can get the streetcar all the way to Julia Station and then it's a short walk. It'll be fun. You can even dress up in costumes."

"Why would I want to put on a costume?"

"Because it's _fun_ ," Castle said didactically. "Spontaneity, remember."

And despite all Beckett's grumbles, that was exactly what happened. She didn't admit that it was really, really interesting, but she was fairly sure that Castle noticed anyway, from his unjustifiably smug grin.

Finally, they trailed back to the hotel via a different street car line, which – Castle complained – was most unfairly not named Desire.

"See you in half an hour," he said, "all dressed up and ready to go to dinner."

Beckett considered her limited dress options, not having expected more than one or two formal dinners with any others located in casual establishments, and decided that the sundress would be just fine. Underneath it, now… would be a different story.

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers._

 _Hawkie: there will probably be 13 chapters in total. Depends if I can fit all I want to into ch13._


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Castle was profoundly satisfied with the day, despite his burnt out taste buds. He (having planned for the eventuality) washed, shaved (they could discuss, or something like that involving mouths but not necessarily words, the interesting uses of stubble or five o'clock shadow later. Mmmmm) and donned an exceptionally flattering blue shirt and smart pants, ready to go.

Beckett appeared in the doorway in the same pretty, crimson-flower splashed sundress which she had been wearing earlier. The dress was just _fine_ with Castle, who had been thinking happily about the endless possibilities of Beckett's endless legs when decorated by a skirt, not pants. So many discreet options… and she looked quite gorgeous anyway: heels rather than the flats she'd had on when they had been wandering around earlier, and how had he failed to notice how the dress emphasised her slim waist, the slight flare at her hips, and the curves of her breasts, which had fitted so perfectly into his hands and mouth last night….

Those thoughts would _not_ help them leave for dinner. On the other hand, they did have a few moments to spare…carefully planned, of course. He prowled across to his beautiful Beckett in her beautifully form-flattering dress, drew her into his arms and kissed her until she purred and rubbed over him and was totally relaxed.

Which was really very surprising, when he thought about it. There had been no resistance at all – in fact, quite the reverse. There had been considerable enthusiasm. There was also no resistance at all to being drawn into the crook of his arm and kept there, all the way to the Royal House. With heels on, she was just as perfectly fitted to his form as in flats: but his hand rested very comfortably on her hip not waist, and if he had only turned a tiny bit her lips were just at the right height with barely a downward inclination.

Those thoughts were still _not helping_. He had a plan, which involved _dinner_. It did not involve turning round and putting the _Do Not Disturb_ sign on the hotel room door. Really not. Fortunately, before the naughty voice in his head took over completely, they arrived at the restaurant.

Dinner was as good as the previous night. Not that either of them really noticed the excellence of the New Orleans cuisine, since they were focused on other things: specifically, each other. Castle was rather surprised at Beckett's change of mood to – well – _inviting_. She hadn't exactly invited him to New Orleans, and yesterday she hadn't exactly been inviting either – until the late evening, when she'd invited him plenty, but only after he'd kissed her.

But she was definitely issuing invitations now. Her toes had wandered up and down his leg in a very insinuating fashion, so his fingers had wandered to her side of the table. Her hand had found his there, and twined into it, and her thumb was stroking his palm. He'd trapped her knee between his in response. She'd shifted so that it moved further inside. He'd taken her other hand. She'd nibbled her lip and peeped up through swept lashes without a hint of demureness.

Good food should always be appreciated. But sexy Beckett should be appreciated far more, and oh boy was he appreciating. He'd simply have liked to be appreciating her in private and with a lot less fabric in the way. She, on the other hand, was appreciating her dessert. Shortly, Castle intended to appreciate a second dessert. Beckett-flavoured, but nothing like her cases.

His fingers tapped impatiently. Beckett smirked and slowed her consumption of dessert even further. Castle resolved on the instant that she would pay for her provocations. That smirk indicated that she knew exactly what she was doing. Well, he knew exactly what – and who – he'd be doing.

Since he'd finished his dessert, he dropped one hand below the table to find the knee trapped between his, and without a hint of tickling slid his fingers on to it, and then above it, just enough to show intent. Her eyes flashed up to his, and when his fingers found their way beneath the fabric of the full skirt and met bare flesh those same eyes widened and the little gold flecks began to dance. The speed of dessert consumption, however, didn't change. Castle, unimpressed, extended his fingers further, which had still no discernible effect. Beckett, it seemed, was quite determined to make him wait.

On the other hand…if she was playing that sort of a teasing game, then she was also thoroughly into him. He smiled seraphically and left his hand precisely where it was, gently moving the tips of his fingers in a sensual, rhythmic pattern which promised much and delivered nothing. Yet.

Beckett continued to savour her dessert, apparently unmoved. Her serene behaviour was entirely belied by her ever-darkening eyes, the smile playing on her lips, and the tiny shiver which ran over her every time his fingers stretched a fraction northward.

"Would you like coffee, Beckett?" Castle asked suavely.

She raised an eyebrow. "Do you need to ask? Of course, please."

Quite clearly, from the mischievous crinkle of her lips and the coy peep through her lashes, she knew exactly what his thoughts were – and what she would do about them. His general confusion deepened – but not so much that he wouldn't play the game with her. He was still completely blindsided by her enthusiastic participation, but… he'd much rather she was participating than not.

The previous night's activities, coupled with the concept of "what happened in NOLA stayed in NOLA", had had an amazing effect on Beckett. Deciding to go for what she wanted – being spectacular sex with no holds barred – had given her a sense of considerable freedom. Of course, none of it would be real when they got back to Manhattan, but not having to ignore Castle's flirtation, and being able to respond in kind, was…um… fun.

(The little brainworm wriggled up and said _you're an idiot, you like this far too much to stop_. She nuked it. It waved from the top of the mushroom cloud.)

Castle's hand on her leg was doing absolutely nothing untoward, which perversely was leaving her with a deep desire that he did do something deeply untoward. Still, two could play at that game, and coffee was a way to frustrate him. Besides, she secretly wanted to know how frustration might affect him. A little mutually enjoyable teasing could be…her thought degenerated to _mmmmmmm_. There had been a _lot_ of muscle on display, and in agreed situations she was certainly not averse to a little…hm… _muscularity_.

It still took her ten minutes longer than usual to finish her (excellent) coffee. It took Castle less than two minutes to deal with the check. Beckett sashayed out of the restaurant with a sense of considerable satisfaction, which lasted until Castle caught up to her, wrapped her in a little more tightly than good manners might have dictated, and began to murmur ominously in her ear.

"You were stringing that out."

She smiled inscrutably.

"Teasing me."

The smile acquired a sensual edge.

"Hoping I'd lose control."

Satisfaction joined sensual, and Beckett's hips acquired a little more swish and sashay.

"It won't work," he asserted. She smirked at him, full-lipped and sexy. "I have total control of myself – what the _hell_?"

"Doesn't feel like control of yourself to me."

Castle was still – awww, how cute – blushing. Beckett simply presented a face of total innocence which was wholly belied by her previous swift action. She swung along the sidewalk humming happily; Castle grumbling under his breath next to her and clearly still rather – er – uncomfortable. Sauce for the goose and all that… and best of all, not a single person would have noticed a thing.

Castle caught her in again after a few strides.

"That was mean," he growled. "Very mean."

"What was?" she said, very disingenuously. "I didn't do anything. I just commented."

"You… you _felt me up_ ," he squeaked indignantly.

"On a public sidewalk? Don't be ridiculous."

Castle's face changed. "You mean you would in private?"

"You what now?" Hold on. She had been in control of this conversation a moment ago. How had he turned it around so fast?

"You said it would be ridiculous on a sidewalk. That clearly implies that it wouldn't be ridiculous elsewhere. Such as, for example," he said very smugly as they entered, "in this hotel, in my room. How nice that we're already here." He ushered her into the elevator and pushed the button. The doors closed.

Castle pounced.

"Wh-mmfff," Beckett emitted, being enveloped and very thoroughly kissed by a very impatient Castle. Provocation had… _mmmm_ …advantages.

"You" – kiss – "are" – harder kiss – "a" – owning-her-mouth-kiss – "total" – his hand joined in and palmed her ass – " _tease_. And since you did it deliberately to provoke a reaction, you're going to get one."

"Don't you mean I'm going to get it?" she said wickedly, and ran evil fingers over him just as the elevator stopped.

Castle said nothing, but that didn't mean, Beckett was sure, that he was speechless, merely that he wasn't going to say whatever was on the tip of his tongue ( _which will be you_ , the brainworm remarked) in the corridor.

He didn't say anything as he opened his door; he didn't say anything as he gently closed it; he didn't say anything as he drew Beckett around him and pinned her against the same door, not gently at all. In fact, he was rather…muscular. Forceful.

Beckett had not the slightest hint of a problem with Castle's muscularity or forcefulness. Quite the reverse, indeed. She really didn't like doormats, or anyone who couldn't, occasionally, simply take. Castle, having been given some very clear invitations, was _taking_. She'd take later, should she wish to. For the moment, she was very happy to note that provoking Castle produced the most interesting of responses, presently pressing firmly against her.

"Now," he rasped darkly, "it's my turn."

He took her hands from his neck and put them above her head, not quite requiring her to stretch up but with indications that it could be commanded if he felt so inclined.

"Let's see how you react when you can't respond."

Who was he kidding? Couldn't respond? Oh, but she surely could. Maybe not with her hands, or even mouth... but she had _insanely_ long legs and he had no idea at all what she could do with those. She would have smirked, but her mouth appeared to be otherwise occupied. Very occupied. She did like those hard, penetrating kisses. More of those would be entirely acceptable. Happily, more of those were happening.

Time for a little – er – responsiveness. She wrapped one long leg around Castle's thighs and used it to tug, intending that he should press in closer to be right where she'd like him.

Oh. That was _not fair_. He should have moved. He hadn't moved. She tugged harder, using the strong muscles in her lean thighs.

"Won't work," Castle said smugly, declining to be tugged. "I know what you're trying and it won't work on me."

Beckett pouted at him. That had the very happy effect of producing another hard, possessive kiss and a very sexy nip on the protrusion of her full lower lip.

"No tugging. I'll decide how close I get." He grinned lazily. "I think I'd like to see what happens with my Beckett when she doesn't get her own way."

" _Your_ Beckett?" she started. "I don't think – _oh God_." _Do that again_. Oh, God, those fingers. They shouldn't have been allowed. That was – _ohhhh_ – totally unfair and downright _evil_ but just _oh god don't stop_.

He stopped. That was _not fair_.

"My Beckett," he said again. "Aren't you? It feels a lot like you are."

"I am not _anyone's_ Beck – _ohhhh_."

"It _really_ feels like you are."

The wickedness of his smile was only exceeded by the wickedness of his fingers, which were dipping and stroking and circling without doing anything which might actually have been _useful_ – _oh god oh god_ _oh god_.

She made another attempt to pull him against her where he'd have to stop _teasing_ and she could roll her hips into him and have all that lovely hard mass just where it ought to be if only he wasn't still holding her hands above her head and staying a critical few inches away and that was simply _not fair_ because he should be getting her off right now already _ohhhh_ stop _teasing_.

"Isn't this fun?" he asked. No it was not. _Fun_ would be stopping messing with her panties and actually touching _her_. And why wasn't he kissing her either? That wasn't fun. "I'm having lots of fun. You really, really want more and it's not happening. Looks to me like that turns you on."

She tugged at his hand trapping hers. Nothing much happened. His free hand took a small detour from her waist to her back, finding the catch of her dress and then the zipper. Both of them opened. Finally, something useful.

"Nice dress," he purred in a velvet baritone that stroked all the way down her skin and then spent some quality time seeping into her already-soaked core. "I like you in dresses."

"Am I supposed to care?" she snipped, desperate to recover some game and some control.

"Oh, I think you do. See, if you were wearing pants this wouldn't be nearly as much fun." His fingers moved again, and she gasped. "I couldn't be spontaneous." He dipped his head and kissed the protest right off her lips. "Here you are, all hot and bothered. I could fix that." He smiled wolfishly. "But I like you hot and bothered. I _like_ watching all that badass Beckett control fracturing. And I'm really, really going to like shattering it over and over again. Starting now."

The dangerous, rasping tone was scraping lightly over some very sensitive synapses. The words were rubbing over her in ways she really shouldn't have reacted to as she was doing. Her whole body was tight-strung, ready for his plucking. Observation had clearly gone considerably further than Beckett had ever imagined it could. The inside of her head was supposed to be private. But like it or not ( _oh, you surely do like it_ , the brainworm gloated) the inside of her body was completely ready for him. She emitted a small mewl, and Castle's eyes darkened.

"We'll start," he purred, "with cooling you down a little."

Never fully letting her hands escape, he brought them down and let the straps of the dress fall from each shoulder and arm in turn, revealing her – oh. Oh wow. She'd _never_ seen that expression before. Stunned, overwhelming lust. Admittedly, she had chosen her underwear with some considerable care ( _just in case_ , the brainworm smirked, which was _not true_ ), but then she always had done. Even last night he hadn't looked quite like that, although last night they'd been in rather too much of a hurry for her to notice the smaller details of how he had looked.

Castle, all brain functions apparently temporarily suspended, shoved the dress off Beckett's slim hips and then, still grasping her hands, simply stared. Sadly, he only took a few seconds – but what flattering seconds they were – to recover, and then take a long, slow, perusal of her barely clad form. He held her wrists behind her back, encouraging her breasts to jut forwards, and made it very clear that he was planning dark, dirty deeds on her all-too-wet-and-willing self.

"Well, now. Isn't that pretty? You had pretty scraps on last night, too. You wear pretty scraps under all those dress pants and demure shirts, don't you? Who'd have thought it?" He made it very clear in his voice that he had thought it. "Buttoned-up Beckett, hiding secrets. I think I'll enjoy discovering all these secrets." His voice trickled over her, smooth and treacly. "I think you'll enjoy me discovering them too. We didn't really find out last night. Only that you like my mouth."

He seemed to pause for thought. "Of course," he whispered hotly, "we decided that I should test my speculations, too."

"I" – she had surely meant to say _didn't agree to that_ but somehow it arrived on the air as an inviting "Did we?"

"We did. I speculate that you like pretty scraps that tantalise because, Detective Beckett, you are a total tease. Teasing is naughty, you know. And you know that naughty girls have to face the consequences."

"Do they?" she flipped back, falling into the game. "I don't think so."

"Oh, I think you do. Because you admitted that you really do know the difference between types of bondage handcuffs. I speculate" – his hands tightened on her wrists – "that you have some." He leaned down towards her: looming large about her slender frame. "The question is, Detective, who wears them?" he breathed, and ran his free hand down over her rear to cup her. "Are you the sort of woman who likes to be...restrained?" His fingers plucked and played with the pale silk, sodden and slippery. "The sort who likes to be...out of control?" They slid briefly beneath the fabric, and she whimpered when they departed. "The sort who likes to be...underneath?"

He took a step forward and pressed her hard against the door: took her mouth without compunction and let her feel the strength of his own need and want and desire, and badass Beckett, never less than wholly in command, melted and flowed and curved against him, totally ensnared by his wicked words and an entirely sure, certain, assertively masculine Castle: confident, commanding and forcefully sexual in a way that left her whimpering and needy, wet, wanton and utterly, wholly willing.

"Because I think tonight we'll find out," he murmured darkly, and fell to.

Castle's plan for the rest of the evening hadn't been in doubt from the moment Beckett had more-or-less admitted that she knew the difference between types of bondage handcuffs. The only question had been whether she _always_ wanted to be on top, and now he knew the answer. No. That was just fine by him. They could switch, depending on how they felt. That evening, though, he was going to stay firmly in command, because Beckett was soaked, hot and so aroused she couldn't think straight.

He ravaged her mouth, possessing in a way he'd wanted to do since the moment he met her, scorched by the heat of her responses and finally pushing her stance open to allow him to grind against her and turn whimpers to mewls to moans, swallowed up in his hard kiss.

And then he stepped back and lifted off but didn't release her hands for an instant: his intent gaze learning and admiring every inch of her body; lingering on the hard pink points pressing through the semi-concealment of the lace bra; dallying at the semi-transparent panel of the tiny panties, covering nirvana; not hurrying as he skimmed down the endless legs to the pale, high-heeled sandals on her feet and the splashes of crimson flowers on the fabric puddled around them.

He leaned forward again, and began in earnest.

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and almost all reviewers._

 _I don't object to constructive criticism, or indeed any criticism, which is about the story. Commentary about my biological sex and/or chosen gender, and actual sex life are off limits. To the two guests who felt it necessary to refer to such in their reviews (not deleted, because I don't need to delete them) please note that (1) your assumptions are entirely wrong and (2) why are you still reading any of my works if you haven't previously liked the style of the stories? Please stick to criticising the story, which is reasonable._


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

His mouth briefly invaded hers again, then left, not without a whine of protest, to attend to her jaw and round to her ear, pressing his intimate ownership into each small space of smooth skin and then a tiny nip: a little pressure on the nerve that the previous night had made known; that had made her wriggle and breathe harder. A small amount of attention to that spot later, she was squirming; panting out desire and need. She would surely discover how much she needed him.

He slid his free hand down her flank, careful not to stroke the proud curve of her breast, and followed with his mouth, which had no such restrictions. His tongue dampened the thin lace, shifted it back and forth across the point of her nipple, circled and retreated and used the fabric to scrape over each sensitised inch: always through the material covering her.

She tugged against his grip, trying to escape his firm hand, but he wouldn't have it: he'd caught his Beckett and he was intent on them both enjoying her captivity. She certainly seemed to be, emitting small sexy needy noises of encouragement, curving to his hands and mouth in open, wanton invitation.

"Like that?" he whispered into her breast. "I can just keep doing this until you plead for more. I can keep you burning for it until you scream out my name and beg me to take you." He drew the hard point and areola into his avid mouth and suckled hard, rolling it with the tip of his tongue, drawing the moan from deep inside her. He didn't cease his ministrations until she could barely breathe for gasping and she was squirming frantically against him, desperate for a friction he wasn't providing and which she couldn't reach: he still holding her hands behind her back, his chest pinning her to the door. He'd gone down to one knee, and both knees were pushing her stance open, exposing the truth of her searing want but doing nothing with it.

Only the smallest tendril of intelligence held Castle to his purpose. Beckett open and writhing and gasping for breath was bringing him up too: painfully aroused and himself desperate to rip the pretty, soaked panties from her and surge into her hard: fast, rough and utterly owning her lithe, beautiful body and soul. Self-control was even harder than the rest of him. But. But he had to turn her inside out and upside down: show her how together they would _blaze_ , as matched in body as in brain and perfectly in sync for both. Having had her the previous night, he couldn't envisage never having her again: screaming his name when he was deep within her or curled cat-like asleep beside him, safe in his arms.

Or, indeed, side by side at her murder board or a crime scene or tossing around theories because that was – well, no. It wasn't _quite_ as good as sex. But it came pretty damn close and they could do it in public.

However, they weren't in public and she was absolutely in the mood for sex. As was he. All those thoughts hadn't stopped his body enjoying her body which was still very definitely enjoying his mouth.

Her breasts, though beautiful, had been caressed and kissed and appreciated for long enough. He lowered himself back on his heels, which put his head conveniently around her navel, stretched up a fraction to tease the small indentation, listened with extreme satisfaction to her disgraceful profanity and attempts to order him around, and then slid the wet fabric to and fro between her parted legs. Her language did not improve, although it was punctuated by _more!_ , and _Castle!_ , which arrived at regular intervals.

"Something you want?" he smirked up at her, and slipped one thick finger beneath the panties, gliding it through the slick hot folds and watching her reactions. Once he mentally deleted the profanities, what emerged was _get me off_. The original had contained many more words: however Castle didn't need the emphasis that those words had supplied. What he did need was a better grip on the Beckett wrists, though, because they were very close to escaping. He decided on distraction. The fact that his proposed distraction was exactly what he wanted to do was a serendipitous bonus.

She couldn't help the scream. She'd been desperate and embarrassingly enthusiastic about what he was doing, and he just hadn't gone far enough hard enough deep enough – and then his finger had slipped beneath her panties and she'd almost come right then but that _rat_ had avoided touching just the right spot until she'd tried to release her wrists. Not that she'd wanted them released: the hint of control was exactly what she wanted and maybe tonight would be a little rough but rough was good when she was in the mood and she surely was. She could feel herself teetering on the edge: every small muscle fluttering and clenching on emptiness and _just do it Castle I want it Castle now_ and her wrists snapped and suddenly there was a long, thick finger within her and hitting the perfect spot and she couldn't help the scream as he rubbed across her with his thumb and she shattered around his hand.

For a moment, all she knew was that he was still kneeling at her feet, a hand around her hip holding her up.

"Bed," she husked.

"Not yet," he purred. "I haven't finished." He leaned forward and kissed her abdomen. She mewed. He did it again, and again, dipping lower each time, his free hand catching the edge of the panties and easing them lower an inch in advance of his lips, and mew became mewl merged into moan. He stopped just before he wanted to.

"What do you want?" he growled into the soft curls, and licked just before she could answer. All that emerged from her mouth was a frantic gasp. He waited an instant. "What do you _want_ ," and licked again so that any answer she might have made was lost in the needy noise. "You want this, don't you?" and another wicked lick and swirl of tongue tip over raw nerves. "Open and wet and wanton and _mine_. You want it, don't you?" That time she half-screamed.

He spread her wider and breathed against her. "You like it. Me holding you right here, pinned against a door and your wrists held so you couldn't escape if you wanted to. You like it a little rough, don't you?" and he rubbed the late-evening shadow on his jaw across her satiny inner thigh, a tiny scrape, a tinier edginess. "You like what I can do to you. Buttoned-up Beckett, all unbuttoned, all for me." Again, he didn't give her a chance to reply before he was winding her tighter, higher: already over-stimulated and twisting frantically under his greedy, ravenous mouth until she came again, harder, on a long high noise and slumped.

" _Now_ we'll think about the bed," Castle noted. "But first, I think that bra would be just as pretty joining its matched panties on the floor." He raised one eyebrow and waggled it villainously. "Do you always match your underwear, Beckett?"

She mustered a brain cell which had some game. "Only if I'm wearing any."

 _That_ fetched him. Oh boy, did it fetch him. And then he fetched her: right up in his arms and into his bedroom and somehow she was flat on her back, naked, in the centre of his bed and he was looming dangerously over her and stripping at an entirely unfair speed to be naked himself and then he lowered and settled over her to slide and rub and tease and _not_ do what he should have been doing, which was highly _unfair_. And he'd let go of her hands, too.

Oh. Ah. Where on earth had he – _ohhhhhh_ – where – _ohhh fuck_ – oh, who the hell cared where the tie came from as long as _she_ came. Again. He was trailing it gently across her chest, a predatory smile on his face.

"Not being a cop, I haven't any handcuffs," he drawled. "So I've had to improvise a little in order to test my speculations." She stared at him, but her eyes were huge and pupils dilated and when she bit her lip it was totally clear that she was right there with it. "So, Detective. Do you like it when the tables are turned?"

She tongued her lips delicately, the pink tip of her tongue moving wetly, lasciviously, and gave a feline, inscrutable quirk of her mouth. "Why don't you find out?" she breathed, and then pounced.

Castle was momentarily blindsided by her sneak attack, which turned him on to his back and then made a determined reach for the tie. Beckett grabbed for it, and had acquired a firm grip on the fabric before Castle realised that she was already winding it around one of his wrists. That was not to be borne, tonight. Another night... but maybe not with his good silk tie.

He twisted away from her, and tugged hard on the tie. Beckett fell forward into him, not expecting that tactic, and consequently missed her attempt to capture his other wrist. He took immediate advantage, flicking the tie out of her clutch and then rolling back to roll over and place considerable weight across her.

"Stuck," he said smugly. "Now what shall I do with you?" He smiled lazily down. "I think... whatever I want to do." He took possession of her wrists. She growled at him, and he grinned. "I won. Now I'm going to take my prize."

"Big bully," she grumped. Notably, she didn't complain at the idea that he was going to take his prize. ( _That's because you know what he's going to do and you can't wait_ , the immortally irritating brainworm chirped.)

"Who started it? You went after me first." Her wrists were confined by one large hand. He rolled off her again, and then stretched her hands above her head. She shivered, but she was neither afraid nor cold. "And now I've got you." The other hand threaded the tie around her wrists. "Not quite what I'd envisaged, but this hotel doesn't really have the right sort of bedposts."

"You chose it," she snarked.

"Not for its bedposts, obviously. Besides which, there are so many things I can do with you and a tie, even without bedposts." She couldn't help the squirm. "Starting with this." The tie departed her wrists, and trailed down between her breasts. He smirked. "Not what you expected?" It tickled further down her body, and Castle moved to spread her legs and then kneel between them. She flexed, excited, and the tie danced around her stomach. "Now where? Up?" He dragged it over each breast in turn. "Or down?" and it went back to below her navel. "Up, or down?" With each word, the silk tie flickered over her skin, teasing, and Castle's predatory, hungry expression intensified.

The next time the tie flickered to the rhythm of Castle's repetitive _up, or down_ , Beckett sat up to grab it and take some well-justified revenge. Tying it in a neat bow around his – er – _extended_ assets seemed entirely appropriate. And if it were pulled just a little tight...he'd follow wherever she led him by the – well, _not_ nose.

Her entire plan was completely derailed by Castle placing one unreasonably large hand just below her breasts (and why was he not distracted by the chance to play with them? Humph) and pushing her back down.

"Uh-uh," he said smoothly. "Stay where you are." His hand pressed gently, but somehow when Beckett made another attempt to sit up nothing happened. The tie was out of reach, too. The stretch of his fingers across her ribs allowed him to play with a proud curve without moving to let her free, which was – _oh yes do that some more_ – definitely entirely – _ohhhh_ – unfair and he should let her get her own way but _not_ getting her own way was pretty good too because she was soft and liquid and it would be just so good to give in and surrender and just let him do whatever he wanted for as long as he wanted but she _wouldn't_ concede and his fingers were moving and _ohhhh just do that again_ he was watching her as if he were waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. She wanted not to be making small needy noises and moving at his direction. Sadly, she couldn't stop either, and all from tiny, barely there touches on her breasts and him kneeling between her parted legs and raking a hot gaze from face to thighs and back again. She wasn't shy about her body, but something about it being _Castle_ made it so much more arousing: almost frightening. _Almost_. Just that little edge of knowing he was bigger, stronger (which he was proving without effort), just that little edge of knowing that he would hold her, cover her, _take_ her.

 _Please_ take her. Right there and then. It wasn't like he wasn't ready. Hell no. He was _totally_ ready, so why wasn't he _doing it_? She tried to sit up again, and was held down, again.

"Something you want?" That _voice_. Deep and dark and treacly and lubricious. She reached for him, and couldn't quite make it. " _Someone_ you want?" His hands moved to play with her a little: teasing, rolling and pinching gently: she squirmed. How could he have known so precisely what would turn her on, wind her up? He'd never touched her before yesterday. He dipped forward and kissed her hard, fast and possessively – and then sat back again, still fondling her breasts.

"Kiss me," she demanded.

"Where?" His thumb scraped her nipple, just at the right point, and she whimpered. He unfolded from his knees, and lay, propped up on his elbows, chin touching her stomach. "So many places to kiss you."

"Anywhere. Just freaking _kiss me_ and stop messing around."

Castle smiled slowly, which wasn't at all the right reaction and would certainly be _dealt with_. Later. "But I _like_ messing around with you. It's so delightful how cross and hot you get when you're not totally in charge. My cool control-freak, all out of control and anything but cool." He kissed her sternum with a swift, evil flick of tongue before she could answer, and smiled sweetly at her. "There. A kiss."

He then acquired an entirely faked expression of remembrance and realisation. "Last night you were totally out of control," he purred dangerously. "You liked every single bit of it: stripped while I was fully clothed, open with my mouth all over you, desperate and writhing when I took you."

"Stop teasing," she growled. Tried to growl. Horrifyingly, it arrived in a husky half-whimper which sounded far too much like a plea for Beckett's peace of mind. Not that _mind_ or indeed _peace_ had much to do with her current state. She was thoroughly frustrated and Castle – _rat_ – wasn't doing anything at all about it. More to the point, he was quite expertly stopping _her_ doing anything about it, and just like the day before it was winding her higher and higher and she really, really needed him to touch her or kiss her or _something_ more definite than a predatory smirk.

"I like teasing you. It has such interesting results." He sat back up again and extended a hand. "You're all wet." He lifted the finger he'd just drawn through her to his lips, flicked out his tongue and tasted it. She couldn't take her eyes from the fingertip. He did it again, more slowly, and she moaned. His finger painted her lips, and they parted to take it in, swirled lasciviously around it, and nipped in unspoken chastisement for his teasing.

"Ow," Castle said mildly. So mildly, in fact, that it became ominous. "That wasn't nice at all. In fact, that was very naughty. What did I say earlier? Oh, yes. We'd" – what we? There wasn't a _we_ in that statement – "agreed that naughty girls – like you, Beckett – have to face the consequences." She certainly had not agreed to that. Definitely not. And she wasn't totally turned on by what the consequences might be. Definitely not.

His finger lightly traced over her heated centre, again. "What should I do?" he mused. "If we were back home, I'd have far more options. Still, I'm sure I can improvise."

She made an incoherent noise, largely because he was touching her too lightly to be _useful_ but it was shivering every last nerve and she couldn't quite reach but she was so close and _touch me_.

"Trying to give me orders? This isn't the precinct."

She found her voice. "You never listen there either."

"Oh, I listen. I just don't obey. Just like I'm listening now, but won't obey. Consequences, my dear detective. Consequences."

She'd never known that the single word _consequences_ could convey such a filthily erotic implication. She would have said something, but that _evil_ finger was running over her again and instead of words, she mewled and arched.

"Now, where was I? Oh yes." She didn't believe he'd lost track of where he was – and much more importantly, where he _wasn't_ , which was inside her where he ought to be – for one single little instant. "I was thinking about what I should do with you. I could just keep teasing you until you can't think straight and then take you. Or I could have you now, and then tease you even more." His expression turned devilish. "Or I could just stop."

If he did that she _would_ shoot him. She could buy a gun. And he was going to _suffer_ when it was her turn.

"You don't want me to stop," he said smugly. "Do you?" And he stopped: put his hands on his knees and sat there, perfectly still. He never stopped fidgeting any other time and she was right there naked and open in front of him and it was _totally_ obvious how much he wanted her and the damn man _stopped_?

"Do as you please," she managed, and was proud of herself for regaining some game despite the thundering of her pulse and the desperate _need_ of her body. She moved her hands.

Castle caught her hands. "Oh, no. Consequences means you don't get to either. If you want it, you have to _say so_." He waggled his eyebrows villainously. "And then I'll decide whether to give you it."

Beckett stared at him. "You _what_?"

He smirked back. "I'll decide. Do you want it or not?" Most unfairly, he slid a finger over her again. "Just to remind you..." Hell, yes, it reminded her. Insofar as she could think at all. It just wasn't _fair_ that he could undo her so expertly with a single touch and it certainly wasn't fair that he was making her ask (or beg, or plead) for it and Kate Beckett did not do surrender ever but somehow she wanted to. Which was totally _not fair_ either. He would _beg_.

She held out for a full ten seconds.

"Don't stop," she whimpered.

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers._

 _To answer a point many have made: Castle will not have everything his way. Oh no._


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

"I don't think I quite heard that."

He had so heard it. But she needed it. Him. And surrendering would feel so good – though her revenge would feel even better. He was going to regret trying to make her surrender... oh, he would _so_ regret it. And she wouldn't surrender.

"Don't stop," she said, more strongly. For the first time, Castle looked just a tad uncertain. Good. She smiled edgily. He smiled back, equally edgily.

"Like to switch both ways, don't you? So do I. But right now, I'm on top." His hand returned to her sternum and his face returned to wolfish confidence. "I'm going to enjoy you." His eyes were wholly dark. "You're gorgeous when you're out of control."

Castle, despite some faint concern about what Beckett might do when given her chance, was far too desperate to turn her into a writhing, melted mess to worry about it now. He had her exactly where he'd wanted to have her for quite some time: in his bed, hot and wet and open and _his_ , and now he was going to take full advantage of her.

He leaned forward (the position was killing his knees, but it was in a good cause) and unfolded, to lie between her legs and rest his face between those glorious breasts: satin smooth and proudly pink-tipped, deliciously _there_ by his mouth. Decisions, decisions: which to begin with? Or...

His hand cupped and covered one side – oh, how perfectly she fitted his palm: not large, but firm and perfectly formed for his hand or mouth – his mouth took possession of the other, and she liked that, oh, how she liked that, she was so sensitive and so responsive and those _noises_ just made him want to never stop causing them. The day before when he'd done this had been fast and hard and they'd just plain gone for each other, but that evening he could take his time and he surely meant to do so.

He lipped softly at one side, and played more firmly on the other. Then he switched, repeated, switched again, repeated... and it didn't take long at all for Beckett to be squirming and frantic beneath his ministrations, trying to direct his head – he stopped that by recapturing her hands, and really wished for a headboard that had spindles because she had the grip of an industrial vice – and vocalising orders with such profanity that he could barely discern the key words.

Of course, he ignored the orders. She, after all, had already come. Twice that he was sure about, and if he weren't very careful for the next few moments, again. The balance didn't seem entirely fair, especially since she was _right there_ open for him, already crying out for him, totally ready and _oh fuck_ why was he waiting at all when it was what they both wanted so badly and he surged up and covered her and thrust home and into her mouth simultaneously and two hard, short strokes later he'd gone.

He hadn't come that fast since he was eighteen, which was embarrassing. He was supposed to be cool, smooth, sophisticated – he'd done better than that the previous night... well. Not really, but they'd both been so over-excited that it had exploded and she'd shattered as fast as he had.

Not this time. She was still, quite clearly, unsatisfied. That suited Castle just fine: after all, she'd still come apart far more than he had, and he had plans which hadn't yet come to fruition: largely involving turning Beckett into a melted mess of sheer lust, utterly desperate for him. _Only_ for him. He could no longer imagine anyone else in his bed other than her, and he was going to ensure that she felt the same way. She had to feel the same way, because he didn't know what he'd do if she didn't. He had to show her how good they were, would be, together.

He slid out of her, and turned on to his back, grasping for her hands and finding them so that she couldn't escape his seductive strategy. Both her slim wrists ended up within one large grip, which left him with a conveniently free hand, roaming freely over her taut abdomen and hard-tipped breasts. She murmured discontentedly.

"Just catching up," he pointed out. "Consequences." There was a distinct growl. "That's not nice. It's naughty." The growl re-emerged. Castle didn't like the growl: he preferred her purring. Or moaning. Or, best of all, screaming his name. He redirected his roaming to encompass a wider span: taking time to fondle at the top of the stroke, gliding through slick folds at the bottom. The growl promptly dissipated.

"That's better," he grinned, and leaned up on his elbow to be able to see her properly: sweat-sheened, frustrated, aroused and gorgeous. He couldn't help but kiss her full mouth, and then he couldn't help but explore, raid and ravage, defeating her attempts to conquer him (he was already totally conquered, he just wasn't going to let her know how wholly he was her prisoner); and then he couldn't help moving to nip sharply on her earlobe, kiss it better, and then lick and suck on her neck – so careful not to leave a mark where it might later be seen, that wouldn't be cool – where it made her gasp and wriggle and then whimper.

Of course, once he'd started, he couldn't stop. He moved straight south, lamenting the inability to tease her curves, but he had a goal in the little mind he had left. He nuzzled at her navel, tantalised it a little, brought her hands down with him to protect his head and ears, and ended up exactly where he'd intended all along, nestled firmly with his shoulders between her legs and his face an inch from the ultimate temptation.

And then he stopped, and waited, and simply breathed, ruffling the neat, dark curls, holding himself back. Soon, she was making needy little noises, mewling, voicelessly asking for more than he was giving.

"What do you want?" he asked, knowing _exactly_ what she wanted.

"You," she forced out. He thought he heard some disobliging commentary following that, though there had only been the one word. How sweet. She was already hotter, just for him. Heat should be cooled... He ran a feathery touch over those delightfully soft curls, missing every significant area.

Oh. _Okay_ then. Her legs slid over his shoulders and clamped around his head. Clearly, he _hadn't_ missed every significant area. Still, he liked his skull unbroken. He propped himself up, peeled off one magnificent leg, slowly and with considerable attention to the satin skin, and tucked it under his shoulder, then repeated for the other leg. He put her hands up beside her ears.

"Leave them there," he said silkily. She wriggled them. "I said, leave them. If you move them, I'll stop." Another decidedly non-badass Beckett pout arrived. Castle crawled up her body simply to kiss it, and then kissed his way back down again, ending just above the swollen knot of nerves which was just waiting for him.

And then he stopped messing around to tantalise her because he really couldn't hold himself back any longer, settled comfortably and took a long, slow lick from one end to the other. Beckett positively _yowled_ , which he heard with huge satisfaction. He did it again, savouring her taste, her texture, her movement as he slowly drove her wild. It didn't take long for her to be moaning and writhing, but her hands remained on the pillow though her hips rose to his mouth. He circled with his tongue, brought his fingers to her and made matching circles at her soaked entrance, only penetrating a tiny amount and finding her fluttering, trying to bring him deeper. He wouldn't be cajoled or coerced: she was going to find just how good he could be. His fingers slipped in and out, mimicking that greater penetration that would come again later; his mouth wound her tighter and higher.

He lapped and licked; circled and sucked and held her tightly for his feasting, forcing himself to slow down, to keep her burning. Her moans turned to his name, but though his own body shrieked for him to take her and own her and make her his in the most primitive way possible: to leave her limp and sated and caught into him – he wanted her total capitulation. His primitive instincts all simply said _mine_.

He raised his head. "What do you want?"

"Castle," she moaned.

"Not an answer," he pointed out, and teased her again with experienced fingers. "Feels like you want more, but you need to ask for it." More teasing, which produced more moans, and his name. He held her expertly on the edge, never quite letting her fall, and asked again. "What do you want?"

"Get me off," she forced out.

"I thought we'd established that I don't take orders?" Castle said smoothly. It cost him huge amounts of effort to keep his voice stable: dark and dangerous. He played some more, and had to hold her still. "Ask nicely, and I might do it." He leaned down again, and added his mouth to the mix until she was wordless, and stopped.

"You" –

"Tut-tut," and he did it all over again.

Beckett was surprisingly resistant to his ploys, but she surely wasn't resistant to his touch and mouth, and it was a battle Castle intended to win. He wasn't going to be her toy every time or even most times: he was no sub, and he wasn't starting then. She was going to admit that she needed him too and if it took him a whole night of edging her into begging then that was what he'd do.

Of course, it would be an amazing night.

He continued to work her up and then interrogate, work her up and then interrogate: her responses began to come on a long pleading sigh but she wasn't _asking_ , still less begging; so he simply... continued. He could enjoy himself erotically torturing her for a very long time.

Beckett clung to one thought only: that she wasn't going to surrender; wouldn't submit to Castle's demand for her concession. She'd conceded quite enough already. She didn't care how much she wanted to give in, she wasn't going to. ( _Yes you will_ , said the brainworm. _You know you will. Just because you're not admitting that sometimes you like to be the one who's cuffed... as often as not... Think what he could do if he knew how much you liked that?_ She ignored it. If it wouldn't just _die_ when she killed it, she could ignore it.)

What she couldn't ignore was Castle. He'd found every critical erogenous zone she knew about and at least five she'd never known existed. She was on fire: scalded and liquid, on the edge of boiling over but never quite allowed to. She could feel every stroke of his tongue and thrust of his fingers; every arch and curve and writhe of her body as he lashed her higher and hotter and impossibly wetter but if she gave in now she'd be admitting a whole lot more than she wanted to admit and they'd be going back to Manhattan in two days and the entire interlude would be done and if she let him know when nothing would ever happen again ( _who the fuck are you kidding_ , exploded the infuriated brainworm _. You're out of your mind crazy. Stop this? Let him go? No way_ ) then it would happen again and that just wasn't going to happen because obviously it would never ever work. ( _You are definitely crazy_ , the brainworm shrieked. _You think he's going to let you go now?_ ) Fun was one thing, but letting him into her head was another. ( _He's already in your dumb head, idiot_ , howled the brainworm, which was promptly dumped into a can of lye. It did the backstroke, and smirked, resolutely undissolving.)

She couldn't stop herself moving, just as she couldn't stop the frankly _pathetic_ noises exiting her mouth, and she certainly couldn't stop Castle doing anything he chose to because the last word she'd be saying right now was _no_ but she wasn't wasn't _wasn't_ going to surrender no matter how long he kept her wanting and desperate and he knew exactly when she was almost there and kept freaking _stopping_ when he should carry on and _get her off dammit right now_. Surely he wouldn't be able to resist for long? He hadn't earlier. ( _Yeah, but he didn't get you off, he took you instead. And you loved every second of it, even if he was...quick_ , piped up that damn brainworm. _What'll you do if he's got more patience than you? Not that that's hard._ )

"All you have to do is ask nicely," Castle purred darkly from her lower body. "I can keep this up all night."

"Stop teasing," she tried to order.

"I keep telling you, I don't take orders," he pointed out. "Ask nicely, Beckett."

She clamped her lips shut on the words gathering in her throat. She _was not_ going to give in.

Seconds later she was trembling under his touch and squirming desperately, soaring higher as he pleasured her until she cried out his name over and over and he _still_ wouldn't let her fall and he did it again and again until her last brain cell fried with sheer lust and desperation and finally –

" _Please_ ," she half-sobbed, and Castle slid up her body and took her: hard and thick and filling her totally, just the right side of too much, moved within her and she took him deeper until there was nothing more but his body and her body and them joined and his hand moved between them and she exploded.

Afterwards, she found herself snuggled in, which was simultaneously satisfying and sticky.

"Shower," she muttered.

"Sure. I'll wash your back."

"I can wash my own back," she pointed out. She wasn't going to let him have it all his own way... oh. "Let go. I want a shower."

"And I want you," he purred darkly. "Guess who's going to win that one?" His arms were closed around her, lazily petting at hip and breast. That was – oh God, that was good. She wriggled under his touch, and found firm signs of interest. "You don't even want to win. You're all soft and strokable. My Beckett."

"Not yours."

"Sure you are." He didn't even have the decency to sound doubtful. "All warm and wet and wriggly and mine."

She would have argued. She really meant to argue. But his evil, hypnotic fingers were doing evilly wicked things which shouldn't have been allowed and she couldn't get thought or breath to construct an argument or to get out of his bed before she didn't want to get out, because he was sliding into her from behind and it just felt so good and then he touched her intimately and she lost the world for a moment.

"How about a shower now?"

Move? She hadn't found her knees yet. Moving wasn't in the equation.

"Up you come."

Uh? No. She wasn't moving. She clung to a handy pillow, which proved to be no help at all as Castle swept her off the bed.

"I'd put it down," he smirked. "It won't appreciate the shower."

Reluctantly, she did. Castle carried her through, deposited her in the shower, and switched on the water with one hand, holding her up with the other.

"Let's get you clean," he said.

"I thought you were trying to get me dirty?" Beckett's game re-emerged.

"You wanted to be clean. I'm quite happy with you dirty." He didn't even blink. Instead, he found the shower gel, and began to massage it in with strict attention to small details, such as the exact way to roll her nipples, the best way to palm her breasts for the most interesting reactions, and careful avoidance of areas which might shorten their playtime.

"My hair needs to be washed," she pointed out. She might have been developing some immunity to Castle's fingers, because she'd developed a plan. He was going to _beg_. Oh yes. He would _whimper_. He had absolutely no idea, and even _better_ , he'd think that he was getting a treat. He would be. For a while. "You could wash it for me," she added enticingly, smiled, licked her lips, and slithered down to her knees in front of him. He sprang to full attention, which appeared to have paralysed his brain.

"Castle! Shampoo?" That was almost too easy. He wouldn't last five minutes before he was on his knees. Metaphorically.

Beckett allowed Castle a few instants in which to apply shampoo and begin to massage her scalp, at which he was surprisingly good. Then she leaned forward, rubbed her cheek against his hip, let the tip of her tongue slide from her lips, and traced a delicate path across his stomach, a miniscule but significant distance above her ultimate aim. All his muscles tensed, and the hairwashing stopped. She made a noise of annoyance, and also stopped. Hairwashing resumed, rather more tentatively. Beckett resumed, not tentatively at all. More... hmmmm... torturingly. If that were even a word. It seemed to fit.

She barely touched him – and yet he gave a strangulated groan. She took a slightly longer, lascivious lick, and he made the same primal noise again. Very satisfactory. She played in the same way, attending to each hard inch, for a while. Make her beg, would he? Her revenge would be honey-sweet, and she'd enjoy every last instant. He was already losing dexterity – just as well her hair was self-rinsing under the really quite wonderful shower.

Finally, when Castle's fingers were clamping around her head and he had degraded to animalistic growling and groaning, she took him in her mouth. Only a little bit, however. Just enough to give him an – er – taste of bliss. Then she went back to enjoying her very adult lollipop-licking. He whimpered, painfully. He was certainly, well, _engorged_.

"Sounds like you're enjoying it," she purred evilly.

"Beckett," he whimpered again, and his fingers clutched at her hair.

"Could you put some conditioner in?" she asked, and smirked.

" _Beckett_."

"Something you want?" She paused. "Someone you want?"

"That's no-ohhhhhh _Beckett_ – fair."

"Funny, it was when you did it. What do you want, Castle?"

"You-oooohhhh," he forced out. " _Beckett_."

"Not an answer, as someone said earlier." She pointed her moral with a decidedly _immoral_ suck. "Ask nicely. You can start by saying _please_." She took him fully into her mouth, and used a trick that she knew would bring strong men ( _such as Castle_ , bounced the brainworm, _and don't you just love that he is_?) to their metaphorical knees, and his noises hit falsetto pitch. She released him, and caught his hands before they could do anything.

"No touching. Hands by your sides or I'll stop."

"But... _oh fuck Beckett_."

"Doesn't sound like please to me," she noted. "Ask for what you want. Nicely." She did her trick again, and released him. "In fact, _beg_." She stopped entirely.

" _Oh fuck Beckett please_."

"Better, but not enough."

"Don't make me wait. _Please_."

"You did." She smirked. "So now you have to wait."

" _Please_ ," he cried out. She waited, flicking her tongue a little: not enough for him. "Don't stop, _please_ Beckett. _Fuck_ don't stop."

She thought that would do nicely – and it had taken her a _lot_ less time to bring him to begging than vice versa – and anyway her knees were a little sore. She licked, sucked – and he came in a hot gush and then sagged to the floor of the shower. She unfolded, standing up, and calmly smoothed conditioner through her hair.

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers._

 _Beckett's revenge is not yet complete..._

 _In other news, the cover picture of my original novel is on my Twitter, at Garrae_writes. Coming shortly to Amazon._


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Castle stared up at Beckett, who, he felt, should be considerably less cool and calm than she appeared to be, after the masterclass in erotic torture she'd delivered. Fairness forced him to admit that she'd merely turned the tables on him, but that didn't mean he'd let her get away with it. Just... not now. He was exhausted, in every sense. The solution was obviously to fall asleep – with Beckett firmly where she belonged, in his bed, in his arms. Tomorrow, after all, was another day.

By the time he managed to stand up and exit the shower, Beckett was already towelling her hair dry, swathed in one of the hotel's fluffy robes.

"Okay," she said, "see you tomorrow," and wandered towards the connecting door.

"Uh? Where are you going?"

"To my room," she said, as if that were perfectly obvious. It was. Castle just didn't like it.

"Oh," he pouted. "That's not a good plan."

"I think it is."

( _Liar!_ squawked the brainworm. _If you were wearing any pants, they'd spontaneously combust. You're being provocative, and you know where that leads!_ ) She didn't need the silly brainworm to tell her that. It was going to lead Castle right into some nice assertive actions.

Such as catching her up before her hand hit the handle and spinning her into him and kissing hell out of her.

Perfect.

"You're not going _anywhere_ ," he grated. "You're staying right here with me."

"Okay then," she agreed.

Castle had a moment of absolute bogglement and then his face altered. "You _played_ me!" he squeaked. "You... you..." His words dissolved into a formless fuss of irritated noises. His arms, on the other hand, didn't move from their tight clasp around her. In an equally desirable display of assertive masculinity, he swept her up, carted her across the room, stripped the robe from her and dropped her on the bed; where he pounced upon her, hauled her back into him, and held her so firmly that she could barely wriggle. Wriggles being prevented, she cuddled in instead.

"Night," she said, and closed her eyes. She was asleep in minutes, cradled safely against Castle, who had fallen asleep even faster than she had. Sex was a lot better than sleeping pills, she thought drowsily, as she slid under.

* * *

"Wake up, Beckett. Wake up, wake up!"

Oh God. Enthusiasm in the morning. Where was her gun? Oh. Manhattan.

"C'mon. The museum opens at nine and we need the whole day there and we need to get breakfast and maybe the streetcar and there's this really cute little cafe on the way I looked up called Cafe at the Square and it looks like it does the _best_ biscuits so wake up!"

"Urrgh."

She forced an eyelid upward. "It's only seven a.m. Go away." The eyelid dropped.

"Nope."

He _cheated_. He pulled all the covers off her and turned the air conditioning up to high. She hated cold. At that point, she also hated Castle. She curled into a tight ball and ignored him. So he cheated _again_ – and why wasn't her gun next door in the safe or preferably right there beside her, huh? – and picked her up.

"Get up, or the next stop is a cold shower," he grinned. _Grinned_. He was dead. He didn't know it, but he was a dead writer walking. Did that make him a ghost writer? It certainly wasn't the usual meaning.

She heaved her legs over the side of the bed to sit up, and grumbled and groused through finding the robe. Then she realised she had no clothes, or indeed anything else, in Castle's room, and grumbled and groused herself through the connecting door to her own room. Castle, of course, followed her. Beckett's one pre-caffeine firing neuron (the one that contained the _how to make coffee before brain activates_ auto-execute) acquired a second function.

"Stay there," she said, as Castle stepped through the doorway. He pouted, but complied. She rummaged through the drawers, and found appropriate underwear, moved into full view – and dropped her robe.

Castle took two steps forward.

"Stay. There," she commanded. "Or go back to your room and the door shuts."

"But..."

"No buts."

His mouth shut with a snap.

"Now, back to the doorway."

He didn't move.

"Back, or out."

He backed.

Beckett held up a very tiny pair of very attractive and totally sexy panties in cream with a pale blue edging. "I think I'll wear these," she purred. One foot came up, toes perfectly pointed, arch pronounced, balance perfect. The toes slid into the panties. Castle gulped. She switched leg, and repeated. When she – very, _very_ slowly – pulled them up, he growled deep in his chest. "Pretty, aren't they?" She knew they were pretty. More to the point, _Castle_ now knew exactly how pretty they were. In particular, he knew about the not-quite-revealing sheer panel and the pretty little bow above it. He'd be thinking about them all day.

For good measure, she flexed as she turned to pick up the matching bra, and could feel his eyes glued to her body. She straightened up and made a fuss of adjusting the cups – lower half cream, upper half pale blue lace: a little blue bow at the centre. Castle bit his fist. Beckett smirked like a big cat: lazy with a hint of danger. She prowled over to the closet and shook out her lovely sundress, wriggled into it with a considerable amount of hip sway and full body stretch, and then prowled over to Castle, who was practically whimpering and _very_ uncomfortable.

"Zip me up, please?"

It took him three tries. That was exceedingly pleasing.

She sashayed back to the closet to find her sandals – flat, not just because they'd be doing a lot of walking but because it put her at the perfect height for Castle to cuddle her – bent from the hips, legs perfectly straight, heard another strangulated gulp and gave a tiny shimmy, and straightened up with sandals in hand.

"Okay," she said when they were on. Castle hadn't even tried to hide that he was looking straight down her cleavage. No game, that man. None at all. By the end of the day he would be absolutely wrecked, because it had taken her less than five minutes to reduce him to drooling mindlessness. With a bit of luck and the right – er – encouragement, he'd spend the evening wrecking her. Perfect. "Let's go."

Castle shook his head, retrieved some braincells from the pit of lust in which they'd been drowning, and managed to shut the connecting door and reappear at Beckett's door in rather less disarray, though his eyes were midnight black and she could feel the boiling lust radiating from him. In the interim, she'd managed brushing her teeth and her make-up.

"We'll get the streetcar back again," he said. "We can walk to the cafe, and then we can walk to the museum too."

"Okay," Beckett said as they exited the hotel into another sunny, already warm day. She wriggled her shoulders happily and, since Castle most reprehensibly wasn't yet cuddling her, added a wiggle of her hips and a sway to her walk. His arm arrived a nanosecond later.

"You're provoking me," he said, around a half-octave below normal.

"No, I'm walking along the sidewalk. Where's this cafe?"

"About ten minutes' walk. Not far."

They perambulated along for a while, Beckett very conveniently tucked within Castle's arm, and reached a small cafe. Castle guided her in, in a rather possessive fashion, and pulled out a chair for her. While he was always polite, that seemed somewhat excessive. She looked around, and found some appreciative looks emanating from some good-looking men. Ah. Much was explained.

The menu was excellent. So excellent, that Beckett could barely decide. She ended up with a waffle with strawberries, but when Castle ordered eggs she insisted that he took the biscuits and then tried to steal as much of each biscuit as she could. After the first theft, Castle simply ordered some more for her.

"So you'll leave my biscuits alone. Thief."

"I thought you appreciated me sharing?" The lick of her lips didn't leave a lot to the imagination.

"Not my biscuits. Eat your own."

Beckett essayed a full-lipped pout, and poked the tip of her tongue through it. Castle's pupils dilated, and he had to take a large slug of coffee to restore his shaky equilibrium. She regarded him with a cat-like expression, as if surveying a mouse under her paw.

By the time breakfast was finished, Castle was barely functional, and Beckett was exuding smug satisfaction tinged with sensuality.

"You are a _witch_ ," Castle complained, as they ambled along Camp Street, with Beckett happily tucked in once more.

"I haven't done a thing," she said, and gave him innocent eyes, entirely contradicted by the slide of her hip against his.

"What was that, then?"

"That's what happens if you hold me that close. You could let go, you know."

"So you can do something else provocative? Not likely."

Before she could make him explode, they arrived at the museum, and Castle's attention was distracted. Fairly shortly, they agreed to separate. Their museum-visiting styles, Beckett decided, were totally incompatible, so it was best that they met for lunch at a set time.

At lunch, both of them were so interested in what they had (separately) seen that there was no flirting, no provocation, and plenty of hurried eating, after which they separated again, agreeing to meet at the exit. Neither needed to say – at closing time.

Much to her surprise, Beckett had thoroughly enjoyed the National WWII museum. She hadn't really expected to, and had only gone along with it – oh. Oh God. She was so screwed: literally and metaphorically. She'd gone along with it to make Castle happy. Oh God. She couldn't let him know that: he'd never let her forget it. Given her luck – and Castle's astonishing ability to read her correctly – he'd already have guessed. Well, she didn't need to confirm it for him, and some well-judged provocation on the streetcar back to the hotel would ensure that he wasn't thinking clearly, or indeed thinking at all. She wouldn't want him to _forget_ about what she was wearing underneath.

Waiting at Lee Circle for an old-fashioned, dark green streetcar, wooden bench seats and all, she began her campaign to leave Castle mindless. He'd automatically slid his arm around her, and she had equally – and worryingly – automatically snuggled in. Happily, that left her perfectly positioned to murmur naughtily into his ear.

She started innocuously.

"Where are we going for dinner tonight?"

"It's a surprise," Castle said childishly. "But you'll need to dress up a bit."

Oh, Castle. He couldn't have given her a better opening.

"Do I?" she breathed. "Does that mean I'll need to change everything?"

His arm tightened.

"I thought you liked this dress."

"I do," he half-squeaked.

"But it's not good enough?"

"It's a very smart restaurant," he managed.

"I guess that means I'll need to change right down to the skin," she moped. "I really like this underwear. It's lovely and silky" – there was a sharp breath beside her.

"Beckett," he said pleadingly. Pleading wasn't going to work. It hadn't worked for her.

"I especially like the little blue bows. Both of them perfectly centred: just where they're prettiest. It really helps with alignment."

At that point, the streetcar arrived, and they found a seat. Beckett took the window, and Castle put his arm back around her.

"And of course," she murmured, "the panties have got that sheer panel at the front." He bit his fist. She put her hand on his knee. "Though I like the lacy tops to the bra cups, too. They reveal just enough..." Her hand rose an inch or two. Castle's powerful thighs tautened. "Didn't you think they were pretty?" she purred into his ear, barely audible an inch away.

"Uhhhh...yes?"

"You don't sound very sure. Didn't you look at them for long enough to decide?"

"I think I need longer," Castle rasped, dark danger in his tone.

"I'm disappointed. I thought you observed? Guess I'll just have to admire myself alone."

"No."

There. He was already reacting instinctively. That denial had absolutely nothing to do with practised suave sexuality and _everything_ to do with sheer possessiveness. ( _You know he's not going to let you walk away back in Manhattan_ , the brainworm said pointedly. _So if you thought this was going to stay in NOLA I suggest you reconsider. Fast._ )

"But you didn't pay attention the first time," she said plaintively. "Or you don't think they're pretty and you can't tell me the truth."

" _Yes_ , they were pretty," Castle pushed through gritted teeth. Beckett's hand moved up another couple of inches, to reach mid-thigh.

"But you still want me to change? Take the bra off, very slowly, uncovering my breasts... You really like those, don't you?" she murmured into his ear. "You sure appreciated them last night. Remember what you did? Remember how much I liked it?"

"Beckett, _stop_!" he hissed. "You can't _do_ this in public."

"You mean I _shouldn't_ do this in public. I can do it, and I am. Thought you were the grammar geek?"

Castle made a noise reminiscent of a strangulated gorilla.

" _Do_ you remember what you did and how much I liked it?"

" _Yes_ , I remember. _Everything_." If he gritted his teeth much harder they might crumble.

"Good," she husked. "Because I want you to do it again." She flicked her tongue out and licked his ear, so swiftly that no-one could have noticed. Her hand rose another well-calculated inch.

"I'd need to change the panties, too... Slide them off, slowly" –

Castle lost the plot. " _Stop_."

She smirked evilly. "And if I don't?"

" _This_." And he leaned over and kissed her hard. When he lifted off, she was flushed. "Every time you open your mouth until we get to the hotel I'm going to do that. When we get to the hotel, I'll deal with the rest of it."

Perfect outcome, really. He couldn't even wait until after dinner. Beckett closed her smirking mouth and, at the end of the journey, strutted off the streetcar with her best sway of her hips. Castle's indrawn breath, two fast strides and strong arm clamped around her told her everything she needed to know.

"Another point on your tally," he gritted.

"How are you ever going to catch up?"

"Wait and see. You'll regret every word on that streetcar."

"I really don't think so."

"Just you wait."

"Are you sure you can wait? You look like you might be in a bit of a hurry."

Castle didn't answer. The walk from streetcar terminus to their hotel was conducted at a pace that almost forced Beckett to a run: the crossing of the foyer was best described as _brisk_ , and the elevator suddenly seemed very full of very large male exuding a great deal of very assertive sexuality.

He could start asserting that sexuality any time he liked, in Beckett's view. She was certainly totally ready for him to do so, and in fact was almost as aroused as he was. She'd always appreciated talking dirty, even when she did it herself.

"Just think, Castle," she purred, "if you're nice to me, I might let you watch me change." She licked her lips. "Your own private striptease."

" _You're_ a tease," he growled.

"Don't you want to watch?"

The elevator reached their floor before Castle could respond. Beckett strutted out of it in a very come-and-get-it way, which resulted ( _you planned that!_ the brainworm squawked indignantly. Of course she had) in Castle catching her up at her door and crowding her, pressing into her with both hands on her hips.

"Tsk," she tutted. "I thought we were going for dinner. I _thought_ I needed to change my dress." The sultry tone was designed to inflame, and succeeded admirably.

"We are going for dinner. You are going to wear a different dress. But _you're_ not going to change your dress and underwear, _I_ am."

"You are? You and whose army?" and on that, she managed to open her door.

Castle grabbed her, kicked the innocent door shut without looking, and was ravaging her very willing mouth before the latch had caught, hands roaming everywhere and then, as she softened and curved and rolled against him, finding the top of the zipper and sliding it slowly down. He stopped kissing, which produced an entirely inadvertent disappointed mew, removed her hands from his neck and held them down, and pushed the broad straps of the shoulders down to leave her exposed from the waist up. Beckett shimmied her hips and the pretty dress fell around her feet.

Annoyingly, Castle didn't go back to kissing her. She leaned in and puckered up, but he still didn't take the hint. Instead, he pushed her back a step, and held her at arms' length. She essayed a scowl and a cross noise.

"Now," he said very dangerously, "it's my turn. You've teased me all day and now I'm going to deal with you properly. I'm going to start by _observing_ all that pretty underwear." He raked his gaze up and down her, pausing at breasts and the crux of her thighs. "First with my eyes...and then with my fingers," he added, and, still holding her so that he was out of her reach, trailed his fingers lightly over her breast, scraping the lace top over the delicate creamy skin, his touch flickering over the nipple. His large fingers played until the pink tips were hard and she was panting, and then trailed down.

"Oh, what a shame," he said insincerely. "You've got your panties all wet." He slid them back and forth, not touching skin. She mewled. "You'll have to change them now. You should probably have a shower, since you're so dirty." The midnight eyes told her that _dirty_ was exactly how he liked her.

"I guess I should," she drawled, sex dripping off every word. "Wanna wash me clean?"

"I don't think so," Castle drawled right back. "I'm going to watch."

Rookie mistake, Castle. Rookie mistake.

"Okay," she agreed. Castle blinked: obviously he hadn't expected the easy-toned answer. "I guess I'd better finish undressing, then." It appeared that the extent of his error was only just beginning to dawn on him. "But since you won't help, you don't get to touch either. Sit on the chair, and don't move."

"I don't take orders. We discussed that, Beckett."

"Fine. Don't sit on the chair, and go back to your own room and wait till I'm ready to go."

He stared at her. "Are you giving me an _ultimatum_?"

"I thought it was a choice, personally. Sit there, or go to your own room. You're the one who doesn't want to touch," she pointed out smugly. "I'm just going along with what you said."

Castle appeared somewhat discombobulated, but sat down, recovering game as he did. "I'm still going to dress you, after."

"Are you? I learned to dress myself age four. I don't need any help."

"So why were you asking to be zipped up?"

"Convenience."

"I'm a _convenience_?"

"No, that's a public lavatory. You were convenient."

Castle spluttered indignantly, and then choked as Beckett posed perfectly in front of him – very carefully out of his reach.

"Now, where was I?" she mused. "Oh, yes. I need to undress for my shower."

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers. Very much appreciated._

 _In other news, if you haven't already seen it on Twitter: my original novel went live on Amazon worldwide this weekend. Death in Focus, by SR Garrae. It's currently an e-book, but as soon as I sort out the formatting for the paperback cover a paperback version will be available too. Shameless self-promotion, but have a look on the handy (free) look inside tool._


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Beckett knew she was quite astonishingly flexible, and regular yoga classes kept her so. Castle was about to discover what that could mean in a situation where she was essentially going to perform a striptease and leave him hanging. Served him right, too. He should have accepted her open invitation to join her in the shower, instead of thinking that he'd leave her all hot and bothered till after dinner. Well, he could just be hot and bothered himself, and if he needed to take care of it, he could do that himself too.

Now there was a thought. He wasn't allowed to touch. No such restrictions applied to _her_. Oh, Castle. He was going to _burn_. She smiled very slowly, and then acquired a sleepy, bedroom eyed look.

"Are you watching carefully?" she purred, and then prowled a step or two towards the bathroom. Castle made a negating noise, which naturally had no effect. She posed again, and then flexed, raised her hands above her head and went up on her toes, into full stretch, which, she knew perfectly well, had the happy effect of showing off her neat breasts, slim waist, and flat stomach. She came down, bent fully from the waist, letting her hair fall over her head, undid the clasp of her bra while all he could see was her back, and then straightened up in one lithe movement.

Her arms extended out front, came down in a balletic movement, her shoulders shrugged a fraction – and the bra slithered down her arms and ended up on the floor as she flexed.

"Like what you see?"

Castle's normally blue eyes were black: pupils blown along with his mind. He managed a nod, without removing his gaze from her chest. Out of sheer devilment, Beckett placed herself in a perfect tree pose, held it for some seconds, spread her arms, closed them again, rose on tiptoes, held it, and came down. He growled, and leaned forward.

"Stay where you are."

"You're doing all this because I wouldn't wash you?"

"No, I'm doing all this because I _can_."

"You just want to provoke me into showering with you."

"Nope," she smirked. "That ship sailed ten minutes ago, and you missed the boat."

She drew one leg up all the way to her thigh, and slid it down again, her fingers trailing over her hips to the edge of her panties, gliding beneath, rolling them down very slowly with complete insouciance till they reached just above her knees, then brought up one leg again, knee directly pointed at Castle who therefore could see nothing, and drew her arched foot out of them; repeated with the other leg. Castle's growling intensified, but he sat still.

"Shower time," she said cheerfully, and turned away from him to reach for the bathroom door.

"Leave it open," Castle grated.

She'd been planning to. The shower area was nicely visible if he moved his chair a fraction – and she was sure he would do so.

He did. She smirked, unseen, and set the shower to warm. Warm enough to be very pleasant, but not hot enough to create steam to obscure the view. Matters were rapidly becoming steamy enough without adding the shower.

She started with her face, which presented Castle only with a full view of her back: the water streaming down through her hair and over her rear. Then she turned round.

"I think I should wash my hair," she mused. Shampoo arrived in her hand as she stood, unashamedly, proudly nude, the water streaming over her, a feline smile on her mouth. She began to lather it through.

"Remember what happened when you washed my hair, Castle? How I knelt at your feet and took you in? I could have done it again" – a groan – "but you didn't want to. Maybe you didn't like that?"

"You _know_ I did."

"But you turned it down," she pouted, and began to rinse. "Guess we won't be doing that again."

"What?"

"You didn't want to do it again. Making people do something sexual that they don't want to is a crime. I'm a cop. I arrest criminals. I don't become them."

"I _did_ like it," Castle insisted.

"Actions speak louder than words."

She stretched up and smoothed conditioner through her hair, her tongue peeking out as she pretended to concentrate on applying the product. Castle looked rather...hm...suffused. She left her hair to absorb the conditioner and took another handful of scented bodywash. Castle's eyes were riveted to her hands. Just a little more... he was already on the edge of his seat. It was so much _fun_ to drive him absolutely wild.

The soap slicked over her chest, around her shoulders, down her back...around to her front again, cupping her breasts and gliding over the nipple.

"Remember how much I liked it when you did that?" He didn't reply.

She massaged soap into her stomach, watching her own movements, and gradually sliding her fingers lower. Just before it got interesting, she switched to her legs, working upwards.

"Do you like to watch?" she husked. "Is that what turns you on?" Another growl, deeper, more dangerous. "Because I like to touch." Her fingertips scraped across the curls –

And just like that Castle exploded into action.

He'd managed to control himself until it looked like she was really, really going to get herself off right in front of him – and he wasn't having that. She'd wound him tight all day – even the museum (in which he'd been really interested) hadn't removed the vision of her donning her pretty, sexy, oh-so-suggestive underwear and it had floated through his mind at approximately five minute intervals _all day_ – and then she'd made filthy dirty comments all the way back until he could barely think and then just when he thought he'd got her right back she'd _totally_ turned the tables and _he was just not having it_.

He was going to have her.

He stripped in a flash, and imprisoned her wicked, wicked hands so that she couldn't touch herself any more.

"You don't touch. _I_ touch you." He demonstrated, slipping one thick finger between her legs. She was hot and soaked: she squirmed against it, trying for that necessary friction and – oh _fuck_ – even that tiny touch set her off and she was gone.

He crowded her against the wall of the shower and ground into her, lifting her to her toes and pressing in, ready; took her mouth without mercy and then thrust deeply and she tightened around him and he took the desperate noises as she took his: fighting back with tongue and teeth and hands biting into the hard muscle of his back as he pinned her to the wall and he shattered, she shattered, together.

"Just for the record," Castle gasped, "I like to touch too." He collapsed on to the wall with Beckett firmly in his arms.

A little while later Castle was back in his own room, ensuring that he was perfectly shaved, groomed and well-dressed for what he firmly expected to be a truly excellent dinner at Antoine's. That done, he padded back into Beckett's room just as she finished drying her hair into a smooth, sophisticated, undercurled effect and started on her make-up. Make-up was dealt with in very short order – but was as pristine as always: eyes emphasised, lips defined. She'd put on a robe after the shower, but all her clothes were lying on the bed, waiting. Waiting for him. He'd asked her to wait till he could watch, but she'd been mischievously non-committal. He should have known that she wouldn't turn down an open opportunity to arouse him.

On the other hand, this was a golden opportunity to arouse her. He had, after all, told her that he would dress her, and now he would.

He ambled over to the bed, as she put on a final touch of mascara to already sweeping lashes, to investigate.

"Pretty," he noted. "I like the red lace."

"I like the black silk," Beckett murmured.

"Do you?"

"Silk feels so sexy slithering over my skin," she answered, stretching the sibilants.

"I see. Come here, then, and I'll make you feel good."

"I can make myself feel good," she flirted.

"More fun if I do it."

Beckett quirked an eyebrow at him, coupled with a prove-it smile. He picked up yet another set of tiny panties constructed of sheer silk and provocative lace, and prowled over to where she sat at the vanity unit.

"Stand up," he coaxed.

"Why?"

"Because if you don't get dressed we'll be late for dinner."

"Better let me get on with it, then."

"No, no. I'm going to dress you. Stand up." There was a definite note of command underlying the words. Astoundingly, she stood up. Castle knelt down, and held the panties. "Step in," he said, and when she moved one leg, caught her waist in one arm and the extended leg in the other, and then placed a very dirty kiss on the inside of her thigh. She wobbled. He kissed again, and then indulged himself in some very intimate tonguing until she was gasping and mewling.

"Other foot," he said, and balanced her while he placed it through. Then he pulled up the panties, slid his fingers over the silk between her legs, slowly, and left them there while he stood up and took her mouth. "Now you'll be as wound up as you made me." He fetched the bra, and put it on with considerable expertise, playing softly with her breasts through the silk and lace.

"Not fair," she complained, and promptly demonstrated her displeasure by reaching between them and palming him till he yanked her hands away. "If you're going to sex me up, I'll do the same to you," she muttered. "Isn't it time we went to dinner?"

Castle looked at his watch and yelped. "Yes." He grabbed her dress, gave it one quick assessment, and dropped it neatly over her head, spinning her to do the zipper up. "Shoes?"

She whipped on high-heeled black sandals to complement the dark red dress. "Ready," she said, picking up her purse.

"Let's go." But he couldn't resist one more kiss, so that she had to reapply her lip gloss in the elevator.

Antoine's was, as Castle had expected, extremely elegant, and the menu delicious. He concentrated very hard on the correct choice of pre-dinner cocktail, and the most delicious appetiser and entree he could find. From the crease between her brows, Beckett was doing the same. Once their orders had been given, however, his feelings – oh God. His feelings weren't just about the last two days' spectacular sex and heated flirtation. He wanted to hold her hand, pet and cuddle and snuggle with her, not just take her to bed and enjoy each other. Oh God. What if she didn't feel the same?

His feelings still got the better of him, and he put his hand over hers, not a claim or command, but tenderly, folding his fingers through hers and learning the spacing of her span, closing gently around them with his thumb. Her eyes met his, questioning, but – _ohhhh_ , something more beneath it, something deeper, softer, something that wasn't just physical – but her fingers twined into his too.

The moment was shattered by the waiter bringing their cocktails, which was possibly just as well. Castle's feelings were far too close to the surface and if he were to blurt them out in his usual impulsive manner then most likely it would all go very horribly wrong, which would also ruin dinner. Better not to say anything, and sip the delightful cocktail in front of him.

The appetisers were excellent – even by Castle's elevated standards. Conversation was not excellent. He kept examining each sentence before he uttered it, and because he was awkward Beckett was awkward. He could sense her uncertainty; see her eyes beginning to shutter. He forcibly pulled himself together.

"What shall we do tomorrow, Beckett?" he asked.

"I don't know."

"We could go on a voodoo tour, or out to the plantations, though it's an early start, or into the bayou on a boat, or just wander."

"I've never seen the bayou," she said thoughtfully. "But all that history at the plantations..."

Castle rummaged in his pocket and found a tourist guide. "Have a look, and decide." He _didn't_ say: – _we can always come back for a vacation_ , though he wanted to.

She vacillated between the relevant pages, eating with one hand. "What time's our flight?"

"It's tomorrow. Evening."

"Huh?"

"Montgomery gave you four days in New Orleans – and I checked. He doesn't expect to see you till the day after tomorrow."

"So we could go to the plantations tomorrow in the morning" – she made a small moue at the thought of morning. "And not miss the flight?"

"If you like," Castle said agreeably. He was perfectly happy with that. In either case he would have been able to spend the day happily snuggled around Beckett.

She smiled at him.

"Thanks," she said. "That'll be great."

Her fingers sneaked a little closer to his side of the table, though Castle was pretty sure that it wasn't deliberate. His sneaked towards hers, which was very deliberate. It was then exceedingly interesting that her fingers were, very slowly, aligning to where his would shortly be; rather as she had begun to align to him in the precinct, and to be aware of where he was and move in sync with him. _Sunflowers_ , he thought, _attracted to the sun_ , as their hands touched again. Only a tiny touch, the merest whisper of fingertips brushing, but...enough for the new connection, the knowledge of each others' bodies and their intimate spaces, to snap into place. Beckett's eyes flared with green-gold fire; Castle's blue ones became electric. Awareness replaced unconsciousness, and Castle placed his large hand very definitively over Beckett's.

"Mine," he murmured. "Tonight, you're all mine. We'll have dinner, and then I'll show you."

Her eyes were wide, surprised – likely at his boldness, but he wasn't going to let the connection slide, and it certainly wasn't going to stay in NOLA.

"Just like I dressed you, I'll undress you. And then we'll make good on all the hints and flirting and seduction that's been going on today. Every last word of it: both ways."

She was still staring at him, wordless, when their entrees arrived, but she hadn't taken her hand away until she needed it to eat with. Castle regarded that as a major win, and in the back of his mind was already plotting to turn her to a total puddle of hot liquid and then ensure that she stayed firmly in his arms that night, the next night, and then every night thereafter. Puddling might be optional – after all, they might be tired, or (heaven forfend) she might have been hurt – but cuddling was mandatory.

The entrees were as delicious as the appetisers. The desserts were more delicious than both. The cocktails had been ambrosial, and the coffee was that served on Olympus to the gods. Despite the aura of heat and desire, the food was savoured. Not a single iota of its glory was ignored or missed. It was not hurried, in any respect. When coffee was finally done, and Castle – much to Beckett's disgust – took care of the check, they departed in good order...

...Straight to the nearest dark corner, where Castle possessed himself of Beckett's lush, coffee flavoured mouth, pulled her so tight against him he'd have sworn he could feel the pattern of the lace on that oh-so-sexy bra-and-panties set, and set about relieving some of the sky-high tension between them. Just like the dinner, he didn't hurry, in any respect. Good order, however, didn't really feature. Just as well that New Orleans was a city reputed to enjoy louche, loose behaviour.

He ran his hand into her hair and held her there so that he could own and possess as he pleased: taking the lead; though she tried to fight back he wasn't going to concede. It was his evening, and she was _his_ Beckett. He kissed her deeply and with complete possession, kept her firmly against his body and proved the extent of his desire, and suddenly she acceded and melted and curved into him and made a satisfied little noise, opening and giving and not fighting for control any more.

"My Beckett," he murmured as he kissed round to below her ear to make her wriggle and squeak. "Mine." He kissed her in that same possessive fashion, then nibbled at her ear again, so that he could murmur dark, dangerous words. "When we get back, I'll show you how much. All mine to slowly uncover, touch, taste, take." She made another contented noise, rubbing against him, soft in his arms. "Time to go back." _Where I'll take you to the stars, till we never come down._

"Mmmm, 'kay."

She leaned into him for a moment more, head tucked on to his shoulder – and then mischievously nipped at his ear, and strutted away, inviting him to chase her down.

It took him only a few swift strides to have his arm encircling her, pulling her close, but she was already aligned to him, placed perfectly for the movement she – or her instincts – knew was coming.

"Caught you," he whispered. "What shall I do with my prize?"

"You think you've caught me?" she smirked. "We'll see about that."

"Of course I've caught you." He took a carefully firm grip of her outer arm. "You can't escape," he added smugly.

"How will you keep me?" she flirted, and essayed a small tug away.

"Easy. I'll simply hold on. Like this." He drew her back in and exerted a little strength. She might be trained – but he wasn't a weakling either. She tugged again, didn't manage – not that she had really tried – to separate, and made a wholly faked cross little noise. "See? Caught you." His tone turned smugly possessive. "I'm keeping you. Mine."

"You can't own people."

"I didn't say I owned you. I said I've caught you."

"Mine implies ownership."

"Could be arranged," Castle said naughtily, "if that's what you like." Beckett growled at him. "What? I remember" – his voice dropped into sex-soaked devilment – "exactly how you reacted to the idea of handcuffs. I intend to find out _all_ about that."

She grumbled something that might have been _you'll be in handcuffs, because I'll arrest you_. He grinned into the New Orleans night, and clasped her closer, because he could hear the delicate undertones of desire. The hotel couldn't come soon enough, for either of them.

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers._

 _Guest - yes, this is a light story. In my other stories where D/S has been more crucial, then yes, safe words are a necessity and have been properly covered._


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

By the time the hotel was reached, Castle hadn't let go of Beckett for an instant – he obviously didn't trust her not to take some mischievous or downright frustrating action just because she could, and she had certainly thought of some – and walked her straight into the elevator.

Apart from that odd moment of awkwardness at the beginning of dinner, it had been a really good evening, she thought. Best of all, he hadn't noticed that she'd gone along with the idea of the museum because he'd really, really wanted to go; and she got to go to the plantations tomorrow.

Her happy confidence that Castle hadn't noticed was abruptly dented when he grinned happily.

"You enjoyed the museum, didn't you?"

"Yeah."

"You didn't think you would." He acquired an expression of interested enquiry. "You didn't want to go, did you?"

"Too early," she grumped.

"No, that wasn't it," he mused. "You weren't that interested. We could have gone anywhere, but – why, _Beckett_! You went along with it because I really wanted to go. Awww. How sweet. You did something to make me happy."

"It was that or listen to you whining," she muttered.

Castle smirked. "Don't belieeeeeeeve you." Astonishingly, he dropped the subject. "Anyway, we'll go to the plantations tomorrow."

Beckett was sure that he hadn't forgotten about her regrettable lapse into niceness, but if he'd dropped it, she was certainly not going to reopen the subject. Still, she couldn't let him think he was getting his own way. In fact... Castle had been just a little over-confident on the way back, and while her body was humming with need, desire and downright lust, he didn't get to do that and turn her into a slushy puddle of surrender any time he liked. ( _Sez you_ , said the brainworm cynically.)

She'd better make sure she was packed tonight, she suddenly thought, and on the idea, knew what she'd do.

The elevator doors opened.

"Thank you for a delicious dinner," Beckett said, smiling, stretched up the inch to his mouth, and kissed him leisurely. "I'd better pack. There won't be time in the morning." She turned to her door, and opened it. Behind her, she'd have sworn that she'd heard Castle's jaw drop and his eyes pop.

"Nuh-uh," he emitted. "You don't get to do that. Tease."

"No teasing. I have to pack."

"Do you? Right now?" He turned her around, and kissed her just as slowly as she had him. Invisible from the corridor, his hands roamed over her ass, and squeezed gently. She sighed softly. He took a step, which moved her inside. "I'm not kissing you in a corridor."

"Who says you're going to be kissing me at all?" she asked, a sleepy smile flickering at her lips.

"You're not stopping me."

That was entirely true. Annoyingly true. She wasn't stopping him kissing her and she wasn't stopping him stroking her ass and she wasn't stopping him walking her into her room, where he slid his hand down her leg and then up again, taking the skirt of her dress with him. His broad palm landed on the bare skin of her thigh, where it sent little tingles upwards which pooled and sparked between her legs. His fingers followed the tingles, creating more of them: a bow wave of heat rolling through her.

"Packing," she breathed out rather desperately, just before his fingers reached the point of no return. Castle grinned lazily at her.

"Wouldn't it be more fun if I helped you?"

Beckett glared suspiciously at him, with considerable justification. Castle's expression didn't exactly indicate that neat folding of her clothes was at the front of his mind. Leaving them crumpled on the floor seemed more likely, from the glint in his eye.

"Less efficient," she tried. Castle simply picked up her small suitcase, and plopped it, open, on the bed.

"Okay," he said happily. "Castle's extra-efficient packing service, at _your_ service." Beckett gaped at him. "First" – he plopped Beckett on the bed, much to her indignation, and bent down to pick up her foot – "shoes." He took her high-heeled sandals off her feet, and placed them tidily in the bottom of the case, then returned to massage her feet. Somehow, he managed not to tickle them. More interestingly, the little tingles of heat had returned, more intensely. Then he stopped.

"Next, we" – who was we? Beckett was sitting on the bed watching – "need to leave you one set of clean underwear for tomorrow" – what? – "which I'll choose" – _what_? That _cheating swine_! He'd sandbagged her – "and pack the rest neatly round your shoes. Just stay there," he added, as she made to move.

Beckett watched indignantly as Castle rifled through the drawers and selected a set made of cream satin with a very delicate green trim.

"These are pretty," he said smugly. "You can wear them tomorrow."

"I don't want them," Beckett said sulkily, and completely untruthfully, from the bed.

"I do." Castle packed the rest of the underwear, only marginally hindered by Beckett's fruitless attempts to stop him removing the case from her reach.

"And finally," he smirked at Beckett's indignant squawks, "we pack the rest." He looked in the closet. "This sundress" – it had brilliant golden-yellow sunflowers across it – "for tomorrow." The rest joined the shoes and underwear in the case. "But there's a little more to go." He acquired a leonine, predatory smile. "Stand up, Beckett."

"No. I'm comfy here." She was _not_ letting him have it his own way – huh? How was she standing up? She heard the zipper zing, and her dress fell off her shoulders to pool on the floor.

"Better pack this too. You won't be needing it again," he added arrogantly, and in three swift movements had it neatly in the case. He turned to look at her, heat blazing in his darkened eyes. "Now, isn't that a sight?" He looked her up and down. "Gorgeous." He paused. "Such a shame they need to be packed too." Another pregnant pause and intent look. "But maybe not just yet."

For a long further moment, he simply gazed, letting heat build between them, devouring her with only his eyes. She'd never been looked at the way that Castle looked at her: as if there were only she in the world, as if she were the first and only woman he'd ever seen. Simply his look was scorching through her, promising hard heat and hot nights, drenching her in her own desire.

"They're so sexy. They were sexy when you put them on and they're even sexier now that they've been on you all evening, moulded to your figure, damp between your legs." He took two long strides while she was still caught by the last few words, pulled her in and simply took her mouth, lifted off, whispered, "Mine, Beckett. Time to make good on all your flirting."

"You too," she murmured invitingly. "You started it." She caught his eyes, smiled sensuously, knowing he was as aroused as she – she could hardly miss it: he was...um...sizeable. "Remember what you were doing before dinner?"

"Sure I do," he said smoothly, "and I'm looking forward to doing it again." His eyes flared. "You like it."

"Mmmm."

"I like it too. I think we should do it a _lot_ more."

Beckett blinked. Annoying brainworm commentary notwithstanding, she'd given no thought at all to what would happen when they got back to Manhattan. ( _Told you so_ , the brainworm said smugly. _Now what're you gonna do_?) She parked that thought. It wasn't helpful.

Castle was being helpful. In his own particular way, naturally, which seemed to involve a great deal of dangerously erotic touching and even more passionate, possessive kissing. Helpful, in that case, meant driving all thoughts out of her head except for _Do that again_ and _More, Castle!_

"My bed," he said.

Beckett muttered wordlessly. Why move? She was quite happy here. Castle, quite unfairly, picked her up and carried her through.

"No case on my bed," he pointed out. She was sure that could have been managed, but then he laid her down, caught her hands in his, and began to play kiss-chase with her breasts. There wasn't much chasing required, since with her hands seductively trapped, she could hardly run away even if she'd wanted to. ( _Which you don't_ , smirked the brainworm. _You're addicted_. She'd swear it sniggered. And it was wrong. She wasn't addicted.) She arched under his mouth and used one long, lithe leg to knock Castle's knees out from under him – _ooofff_ , the man had weight – so that she could curve her hips up and squirm against the thick hard erection which was now exactly where it ought to be though he ought _not_ to have clothes on. She was pretty sure that Castle's intentions were that she wouldn't have clothes on shortly, so she was going to return the favour, whether he liked it or not.

She snapped her hands out of his grip while he was completely distracted by the possibilities of palming, rolling, stroking and even – lightly – pinching her breasts, and proceeded to open all of his shirt buttons with extreme alacrity – once she managed to wriggle her fingers between them, which she achieved by the simple method of starting at the bottom, as it were. He really did growl most satisfyingly when she stroked his ass, and the wriggle when she squeezed it had just the right effect. Of course, she couldn't leave him entirely unaffected, but a well-aimed grip and slide took care of that, and when that caused him to lift a little, she took full and immediate advantage.

"In a hurry, Beckett?" he gasped.

"I like you naked," she pointed out.

"You should have said."

His shirt hit the floor, his pants, boxers and socks followed. If she'd known it was that easy to strip him, she'd have suggested he do it where she could watch.

"You're not naked," he oozed. "I think you should be." Clever fingers sneaked under her back and divested her of her bra, then slithered across her breasts and downward to roll off the panties. Castle sat back on his heels and produced another instalment of the heated, arousing, intent gaze that took her higher without touching her. That was very nice, but a little slow for Beckett's current taste. She sat up (at last, a use for all those sit-ups), grabbed his shoulders, and pulled him down over her, opening for him to be perfectly positioned.

He didn't disappoint. Castle, at least in bed, could take a hint. He could also take a Beckett, and he was certainly taking: sure, strong and totally sexual. She melted into the man and the motion and let him send her soaring, joining her there.

Afterwards, though, both all cleaned up, he snuggled around her, cuddling her close and not doing anything untoward at all, stroking her side but – for once, and not entirely desirably – keeping it clean. He should be doing something a little more useful: after all, it was their last night here. She wiggled hopefully, and then turned in his grasp and kissed him when that didn't work.

What? No return kissing? They were naked in his bed, for God's sake. How could he not light up? Surely he couldn't be done already? Surely he couldn't be done with _her_ already – he'd just said he wanted to do a lot more oral on her. But... She turned away again, and curled into herself.

She found herself pulled back.

"No running 'way," Castle mumbled. "Stoppit. C'mere."

She didn't appear to have had much of a choice about that, since she was pinioned against him and he'd tangled their legs.

"Wanna cuddle," he added.

Cuddles were all very well ( _no_ , said the brainworm, _stop lying, you adore being cuddled and petted. You're just avoiding the obvious conclusion. Again. Dumbass_.) but she felt so good ( _how about you phrase that correctly_ , said the pedantic brainworm which should be dead, dammit, _you've never felt that good with anyone else because it's Castle making you feel that good_ ) and she wanted it ( _him!_ yelled the brainworm) again.

"I wanna do something else," she purred, and tried to reach for him.

"Not yet. In a minute." Castle sounded rather more awake. "Just enjoy the moment."

That was the problem. She was totally enjoying the moment, now she'd been forced to think about it. She felt...safe. Cossetted. Warm and cosy and – oh fuck no. No no no no no. No. ( _Yes_ , cheered the brainworm. _Finally!_ She shredded it. It stuck itself back together, and laughed at her.) It wasn't possible. No. Absolutely not. He couldn't possibly feel like that. He was an annoying man-child with a hyperactivity problem and a gift for flirtation ( _you mean hot sex. And you're wrong_ ) who couldn't possibly make her feel loved. It wasn't real. His arm around her and that big, warm body enclosing her... wasn't love.

Oh, _fuck_. ( _Oh yes! Finally got something into your concrete head_ , cheered the brainworm.) No, no nonononono. She couldn't possibly have fallen for him in three days. ( _You didn't. You've been falling for months, you just wouldn't admit it_. That damn brainworm was smug enough for twenty.) Now what? There was no way he could feel the same. Not that there was any same to feel like. She was _not_ falling for him. ( _Clothheaded dumbass!_ ) He was a...ladies' man, in the old parlance. A flirt. ( _The man who's set up a whole sequence of nice things to do together_ , the brainworm pointed out sardonically.) Never without eye candy. ( _Except since he hit the precinct._ )

She curled up into a hedgehog-like ball and thought about wailing. It seemed like an appropriate reaction.

Castle didn't like Beckett curling up into a defensive ball. It wasn't the right reaction at all. She should curl into him and let him cuddle her and keep her safe and cosy and lov– oh shit. Oh shit oh shit oh shit. How did _that_ happen? Oh shit. She was so kickass, badass and independent and she'd been making it totally clear for months that she wasn't interested and even though she'd fallen straight into his bed how was he ever going to make her see that he wanted her there permanently?

On the other hand, presently lying around her middle where it ought to be, she _had_ fallen into bed. And flirted and teased and made it very obvious that she'd enjoyed it. All of it. _Him_. Surely she wouldn't have done that if she wasn't interested? If she'd only wanted a one-night stand with an (he preened) excellent lover, she'd have done it much earlier and walked away then.

He didn't like that thought, and growled irritably. There would be no walking away. His arm tightened, and hedgehog-Beckett was perforce tucked back in, where he could unfurl her. She wasn't readily unfurlable, he found.

"Come out," he enticed. Nothing happened. "C'mon. Come out and be kissed." She didn't move. "C'mon. Last chance before we need to go to sleep." There was a slight tensing of her back. Castle thought for a second. Surely not? But... well, it had to be worth a try. He mustered all his best, most arrogantly annoying (but sexy) game, and applied some considerable effort to ensuring Beckett's beautiful face was turned to his.

"I can't believe you spent all that time before dinner showing me how much you liked me going down on you and telling me you wanted me to do it more." He paused. Little flecks began to swirl in her eyes. "But if you're exhausted by my superb technique, that's okay. We'll get to it tomorrow night." She swallowed. Hmmm. Interesting. "Anticipation can be really hot." That was better. Her eyes were focused on his. "I'll be anticipating uncovering that pretty underwear you'll be wearing tomorrow. The set I chose. I like choosing your underwear. I can't wait to find out what other choices I'll have..." Every word implied that there was more to their...um...interaction than simply the few nights they'd shared. "And then I'll anticipate peeling it all off you slowly." He faked a sudden realisation. "Back in Manhattan, we'll try out those handcuffs of yours. You teased me with the prospect, so you'll need to make good on it." His arrogant grin turned feral and predatory. "You'll scream for me. All tied up where you can't escape me. I'll turn you into a hot mess and you, my dear detective, will enjoy every single second of it." He stopped. "I'll even let you do the same to me."

"Who says I'm going to let you choose my underwear?" she spluttered.

"Me." She'd either missed or skipped straight over the underlying meaning – that he was going to be doing a lot more than simply shadowing her from now on. "Not all the time, of course. I like surprises, too." She gleeped indignantly, apparently unable to form words. That was fine by Castle, Wordless Beckett offered so many opportunities... He pounced on her parted lips, and raided to his heart's content.

Kissing Beckett had only one problem, he decided. He – _they_ , since she was emitting little noises and moving against him in a very hopeful fashion – couldn't stop. In fact, kisses were inevitably leading him to more emphatic kisses which produced curving and wriggles which put her breasts in his way and then it would be just plain rude not to kiss them... oh _fuck_ her hands were evil... and the only way not to disgrace himself would be to get out of reach of her wicked, naughty fingers and the only way to do that was to move down and then, well, she was _right there_ : soaked and heated and open and she was irresistible; not that Castle had any resistance anyway.

He wriggled his shoulders into place to hold her wide for him, put his hands firmly round her sharp hip bones to keep her moderately still, leaned forward, and took one long, slow, forceful sweep of tongue across her. She bucked and shrieked, muffled in a pillow, so he did it again. And again, and more, till she was right on the edge. Then he stopped.

"You like this," he stated.

"Don't _stop_."

"You want me to do this a lot more."

"Hell, yeah. Right now."

"Not just right now" – but he gave her a little more, and more again, and teased and tasted till she couldn't think or speak through the sensations building and then she cried out and came hard against him.

He slid up the bed and cuddled her back in. "You'd like more of that, wouldn't you?" he tempted. She breathed shallowly, recovering. "C'mon. Stop teasing me. You know you would, so why not have it? Fair's fair... I could have this, in return." He slid slowly into her, from behind. She squirmed. "You like that too." His hands roamed over her breasts, down to play with the slick, sensitised bud, back to her breasts: he murmured darkly in her ear. "We could have it as often as we wanted."

"Yes?" she said, but it was a question, not a statement.

"Yes."

And then he moved within her and his fingers moved on the outside and then they moved together in harmony and then there was only her and the glory and the stars.

"We ought to get some sleep," he murmured into her hair.

"Am sleeping," she mumbled, lying to him because how could she answer if she was asleep? "G'way." But her body snuggled into his to fit perfectly with him and she even liked the other side of the bed so surely that was a sign from the heavens that this would work? She had, after all, just about agreed that they should do this a lot more. _And_ she'd gone to the WWII museum to make him happy. He slid into sleep feeling rather optimistic.

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers._

 _To remind you all, should you choose to try it - and with massive thank yous to those who have! - Death in Focus, by SR Garrae (me) is available now in both e-book and paperback on Amazon._


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

He woke up to the buzz of his alarm to find Beckett still nestled in his bed and indeed in his arms. That was deeply positive. Even more positively, he'd set the alarm to allow them a little time for...um... connection. Or something like that. His romantic soul got the better of him, and he planted a kiss on her lips to try to wake her.

It did wake her. In fact, it woke her into a far better mood than she'd displayed the other morning, because she sleepily murmured, "Come here," placed her hands around his neck and pulled him down to her. _Not_ an invitation to be refused, and Castle certainly couldn't.

Half-awake or not, Beckett seemed to be in a mood to take control of the kiss. Castle let her, though all his primitive instincts (which seemed to come out to play whenever he was in bed with Beckett, or kissing Beckett, or thinking about Beckett's beautiful body with or without sexy underwear) wanted to pin her down and ravage her exceedingly receptive self. Something about her intensity, her ferocity, made him want to prove that he was a match for her: strong enough to take her, hold her, have her. She wasn't a woman who respected weaknesses. Which was, ultimately, just fine by Castle, because he wasn't a man who wanted a fluffy-headed doll. For now, he'd let her take the lead.

Letting her take the lead was an exercise in severe control not simply to _take_ her. Beckett's mouth was like an oleander, gorgeously pink and lush and open – and deadly. Deadly to Castle's brain, that was for certain sure. She'd rolled him to his back, and straddled him so that he was nestled into damp heat but not allowed in, slipped and slid over him, playing, and all the time exploring and invading his mouth and teasing him till he couldn't help but growl and groan deep in his throat – oh God he shouldn't have thought of _throat_ – and then she nibbled at his neck and down and teased his flat nipples and stroked at his pecs and he could feel her knowing smirk as she kissed further down and _how_ could she bend like that because he was still touching her scalding core and then she straightened as she teased the arrowhead of hair pointing downward and he wanted so much to pull her back up but he had to let her –

Oh God he was never ever going to stop her. He'd been hard since she began: ready and waiting, but now he was iron, granite, and she hadn't actually _done_ anything yet. She bypassed heaven to scratch lightly down the inside of his thighs and then cup him where he was tightly drawn and he groaned.

"You like that," she said sleepily, and stroked, never touching anywhere else. "You like a little _deferred gratification_." She couldn't use his own words against him like that: it _wasn't fair_ – but he couldn't form words because all that would spill out would be _more Beckett please Beckett_ and he wouldn't do that because she was to be the one who pleaded with him but _oh fuck_ she was so good at it.

She placed a kiss very precisely on his thigh, turned her head a fraction and he wasn't even sure that she touched him but it was so _hot_ and she did it again on the other side and he didn't tell his hands to knot in her hair but they did anyway.

"Let go," she said, but there was dark amusement in the words as she sat up. He did, though it cost him, and fisted his hands into the sheet to stop them returning.

"Good boy." Still that same dark smooth amusement. "Good boys deserve a reward." She leaned back down, and in one lithe movement took him into her mouth, then released him again. He couldn't stop the whimper as she left him. "You like that. I like that."

"More," he forced out.

"We'll see."

She bent again, and licked delicately up the shaft. His hips bucked towards her in desperate invitation. She declined it, and flicked once, softly, at the bulbous tip.

"Beckett!" he cried, and she did it again.

And then her mouth surrounded him and _oh God oh fuck_ he just went deeper and deeper and she _swallowed_ and his brain dissolved and he dissolved and that was surely Heaven that he'd just touched.

Castle's first coherent thought was that she was never, ever going to get away from him. His second thought was that Beckett wasn't actually there. His third was that the shower was running and _he_ wasn't actually in there with her. His fourth thought was that his knees weren't working yet, so following Beckett to the shower was a non-starter.

Beckett reappeared in short order, gloriously naked and completely unembarrassed about it, and almost as quickly disappeared into her own room. Castle growled, and her head reappeared.

"Wait for me," he said forcefully.

Beckett smirked. "Better hurry. I want to have my breakfast and you're the one who booked us on an early tour."

"I'll be quick," he scowled. "But later, I'll be slow. Really slow." He licked one finger, and watched her eyes flash hotly.

His shower was exceedingly speedy. Beckett was not to get dressed without him being there to watch and assist – and provide some – er – recompense for that awakening.

She was sitting at the vanity unit, wrapped in a fluffy robe, finishing her mascara. It was surprisingly hot to watch: a glimpse of her private practices, a view into her secrets. He prowled up behind her, seeing them both reflected in the mirror, cupped his hands around her face from behind her, kissed the top of her head, and then retreated to a chair to watch.

She dressed in front of him as if she did it every day, a small, secretive smile, a shimmy of hips, the implied promise that he'd see more later, another request for him to zip her dress up. He did, but then spun her round, hands on her hips, brought her head down to his to kiss her until she softened and curled on to his lap, where she fit precisely into the cove of his clasp.

"Breakfast," she said briskly.

Castle thought that Beckett on his lap was a far better experience than breakfast, but he supposed he ought to eat before they set off. Still, while he disposed of his French toast and fruit and drank his coffee, he couldn't help but think how beautifully she'd aligned into his body whilst in his lap, how well she'd fit.

"Castle!" Oh. He'd missed something. "Isn't it time we went?"

"Yes. Plantations, here we come."

They walked down to the meeting point after checking out under an already-warm sun. Beckett had been perfectly placed to be encircled in his arm without apparently having had to think about it or even look to see where he was, and on the coach to take them out to the first edifice she leaned on his shoulder and stayed cuddled up.

Beckett was thinking. She wasn't entirely sure she liked her thinking, because her thinking was that she really, really liked being snuggled into Castle's wide shoulder. It was ridiculous to be so ( _addicted_ , sneered the brainworm) affected, when they would be back in Manhattan tonight and everything would go back to normal tomorrow morning. ( _That's not what Castle thinks_ , the brainworm pointed out sharply. _He pretty much told you flat out that he wouldn't let you go_.) What? He hadn't said that at all. Had he?

Had he? He'd only said... Oh. He'd said _back in Manhattan_. She ignored the next few words. He'd be the one in handcuffs. ( _Yeah, right_. _Sez you_ , the brainworm jeered.) He was just being ( _accurate, you blithering idiot_ , yelled the brainworm, now sporting a Union Flag beret in glorious anachronism. Beckett shot it. It bounced back up, and doffed the beret to her) ... anyway, it wasn't relevant.

"You're thinking too loud," Castle interrupted her. "Stop thinking and relax." Entirely contradicting himself, he added, "What are you thinking about anyway?"

"Nothing important."

"I don't believe you. You're scowling at the window," he added with an air of annoyingly Holmesian superiority. "Therefore it was important, unpleasant, and annoying."

"Obviously I was thinking about you, then," Beckett snipped with unjustified nastiness.

"Mean. And two-thirds untrue. I'm very gratified that you think me important, but I thought we'd fully established that I am neither unpleasant nor annoying." He tipped her face round to meet his gaze. "Though it's rather interesting that you were thinking about me."

"Wasn't."

"You just said you were," he teased gently. "Which is it?"

Beckett retreated into grumping. Sadly, Castle (so what was new?) didn't take the hint.

"C'mere," he coaxed, and cuddled her in further, shielding her from the coach aisle. "I've got you, and" – his tone changed to quieten and slide into deep, smooth possession – "I'm keeping you. My Beckett."

 _What_?

"But..."

"Silly Beckett. Of course I'm keeping you. I said so."

( _Told you so_ , gloated that damn brainworm.)

"But..."

"Are you sulking because you thought this would stay in New Orleans?" he murmured intently. "Because it's not staying in New Orleans unless you tell me to leave the precinct."

"I am not sulking," Beckett sulked.

"Yes, you are. It's cute" – she growled at him – "and so's that, but it's totally unnecessary. I'm not letting you go – Oh. We're here."

That arrival, Castle thought aggrievedly, was almost as well-timed as Ryan. He was perfectly sure of the problem: Beckett either hadn't listened or hadn't understood what he had said last night and this morning, though admittedly he hadn't been explicit. Unlike what they'd done, which was very explicit indeed and should be repeated – would be repeated – at every conceivable opportunity. Without the conceiving, to be sure. That should wait until after they were married – wait, _what_ was he thinking?

He relapsed into a silence to match Beckett's, and followed the tour group into the Whitney plantation.

* * *

"That was... awful," Beckett said, as they rejoined the coach. "So much suffering."

"All those horrible stories," Castle agreed, heaviness in his voice. "All those words on the stone tablets, and every one deserved a better story. Someone should have told the stories – or found them out – much earlier."

Beckett shuddered, and Castle wrapped her in, just as shaken as she by the ugly reality exposed. Of course they'd both known about it – but somehow it was far more real in the victims' own words, however ungrammatical and brief: somehow the pain was more stinging. History in the raw, he thought, and cuddled Beckett as if he could find surcease there from the only-too-clear pictures in his all-too-vivid imagination. That tour wouldn't lightly be forgotten. Neither of them spoke on the way to Oak Alley plantation, lost in their own thoughts and the history they'd just experienced.

Oak Alley was pretty, historical, and considerably less disturbing and interesting than Whitney.

"Basically, it's Gone with the Wind, isn't it?"

"Mhm," Beckett agreed, vaguely. She wasn't paying much attention. She was still struggling to get her head round Castle's earlier commentary, and that damned brainworm screeching _told you so_ every five seconds really wasn't helping anyone.

"I could just see you as Scarlett O'Hara."

"Mmm," replied Beckett, paying even less attention.

"Those tight laced, full-skirted, low cut dresses would be stunning."

"Mhm."

"I'd love to see you in a corset and nothing else."

"Mm," hummed Beckett, who had paid no attention at all for the last few seconds.

"So I'll buy you one and make sure I tighten the laces."

"Mhm," said Beckett, who hadn't heard a word. "What are you _doing_?" She found herself being forcibly seated on a handy bench.

"You're not paying any attention."

"I was," she said with a complete lack of honesty.

"So what did I just say?"

"Ummm..."

"See, you weren't." Castle wrapped his arm around her. "Stop thinking." He rethought. "Actually, don't stop thinking. Start thinking about what I'm going to do when I get you this corset." He surveyed her dropped jaw. "I think I'll get you a white one. Half-cups. Lots of frothy lace which only just hides those perfect breasts of yours. White lacing, pulled tight around your slim waist, giving you an hourglass figure. You'll be stunning." At that point, she wasn't so much stunning as staring, stunned.

"Uh?"

"If you'd been listening," Castle said provocatively, "you'd have heard me the first time. Of course, maybe you did hear me and you agreed."

"What? I did not!"

"You should have. Anyway, when we get back I'll arrange it. Ummmm..." his hands moved down her sides... "36-26-36 should do it."

She made a number of hugely indignant noises, none of which damaged Castle's happy smile by one single iota. "Am I wrong?"

More indignant noises, followed by a grumped, "No," followed by, "You are _not_ buying me underwear."

"Nope," Castle agreed very amiably. "I'm not. I'm buying you a corset. Specific, not generic. Oh – and some stockings to go with it. I think I'd really like to see you in a corset and stockings."

He would. Right there and then. And he needed to stop that conversation because those bushes right over there were not sufficiently concealing for anything at all which he was thinking. Well. Not precisely thinking. More...lusting.

Beckett was still making indignant noises five full minutes later, much to Castle's private amusement. What she wasn't making were noises of denial, argument, or downright refusal. How...fascinating. More to the point, they were about to have a nice coach journey in which he could both murmur dirty talk into her ear and, if he merely slanted himself carefully, indulge in some provokingly erotic touching which would keep her nicely hot until they landed, at which time he would escort her home and make good on all of it.

"Time to go," he said over her black mutterings, stood up and pulled her up, taking the opportunity to cuddle her, in far too briefly.

Tucked into seats near the back of the coach, Castle arranged himself to block the view from the aisle, which wasn't hard since everyone else was closer to the front, slung his arm round Beckett in an assertive manner, and leaned in to be a scant inch or so from her ear.

"So," he murmured, "what shall I do with you?" He didn't bother waiting for an answer, which would only interfere with his plans. "If we had time, I'd take you back to the hotel and undress you very slowly, so that I could have a better look at that pretty bra and panties. You seem to have a lot of sexy underwear, and I'm going to enjoy all of it. Then I'll enjoy taking it off, and then I'll enjoy what's underneath. You like it when I do that." He consciously projected that same slightly dominant assertion of the first night. "You like it when I take control; show you the consequences of all your teasing." He placed a dirty little kiss on her ear, flicked his tongue over the shell, and smiled ferally at the small intake of breath. "But we don't have time for that. So I guess we'll just have to talk about it, till I've got some time to do it."

Beckett flicked a cynical glance at him, which wasn't hiding the desire at the back of her eyes in the slightest. "You never stop talking, Castle."

"Oh, I do," he oozed. "I have _several_ other uses for my mouth, absolutely all of which you will definitely enjoy." The smile turned wolfish, and his hand dropped to her thigh. "After all, you already did." The fingers walked up to only just short of dangerous.

Then they walked back down to almost safe places. "But right now, I don't want arrested, so all I can do is talk to you. But first, I have a question."

"Since when do you _not_ ask questions?"

Castle's wolfish smile would have dealt with a full pack of beasts. "I want to know, Beckett, how often you've worn a corset – or anything similar."

"Do you?"

"Yes. Because my spidey-senses tell me that you know more about it than you were letting on. You knew exactly what size it should be. I think," he said annoyingly, "that you might already have one."

That should work, Castle thought. He would give Beckett the opportunity to confound him by winding him tight, and in the process he would discover all her secrets and, more importantly, reinforce the idea that he would be coming home with her tonight.

Sure enough, her eyes darkened, she acquired a slyly knowing look, and her own hand fell on to his leg. He raised brows at her, waggling them. Her lips quirked secretively.

"And if I did?" she invited.

"But do you?"

" _If_ I did," she said, emphasising the theoretical _if_ , which he didn't believe for an instant, "why would I tell you about it?"

"Oh, I have no idea," Castle said casually. "It's not as if it would make any difference, is it?"

"You think?" _Gotcha, Beckett_. That had been distinctly offended – and challenging. "When you've spent the last half hour drooling at the prospect?"

"I do not _drool_ ," Castle said, even more offended than she had been. "I _appreciate_."

"With your tongue hanging out."

"I didn't hear you objecting to my tongue being out when it was" – he dropped his voice, not wishing to be evicted from the coach for offending those around him – "tasting every inch of you, teasing you, taking you higher... you taste amazing when you're hot and wet and desperate, and those legs of yours are" –

Beckett rammed her mouth against his and silenced his evil words with a brain bending kiss, being the only thing she could think of to keep him quiet. It suited Castle perfectly. When she let him go, with an irritated tug at his hair just to make her annoyance plain, he gazed out the window with a happy smile, designed to irritate her further. The one thing he didn't do, quite deliberately though with extreme difficulty, was pull her straight back into him and kiss hell out of her in return. He was quite sure she expected him to, so he didn't. With just a little more frustration, she would try to wind him up all over again.

Perfect.

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers. Very much appreciated._


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

Beckett was thoroughly unimpressed by Castle's refusal to kiss her more. ( _Yeah, and you know why that is_ , snarked her brainworm.) They'd be leaving New Orleans in a few hours and the opportunities for kisses were rapidly reducing. ( _Don't be an idiot. You'll have plenty of opportunities back home._ )

The brainworm might be sure of that, but Beckett's innate pessimism wasn't. Regardless of Castle's earlier statements, she felt that a little further, um, _encouragement_ might be required. After all, if he was totally into it, he'd have kissed her back. She vacillated for a moment or two, and then realised that Castle was just a fraction tense. Expectant, almost.

Ah. Castle was trying to mess with her, and not kissing her was part of that. Obviously he was looking for something... It would have been a terrible shame to disappoint him... but it would have been an equally terrible shame not to exact a reasonable quantity of revenge for messing with her. Well, by the time they got to the airport he'd be dragging his tongue on the floor and _whimpering_. She smiled out of the window, concealed from Castle, and began to plan his surrender in earnest, starting with _not_ (yet) talking to him about corsets and similarly erotic underwear. That would come. Oh yes. And probably come off, too.

Anyway, he could just stew for a bit. Thought he'd mess with her, did he? Thought that three days of spectacular back-and-forth erotic play and sex would give him the keys to her kingdom (queendom? she wondered) and she'd just go along with him and surrender all the time ( _what, like you already did_? asked the brainworm, and added _like you want to_? Which she definitely did not. Not, she repeated firmly), did he? Well, Kate Beckett did not put up with that. No way.

She sat calmly, gazing out of the window, and didn't tease him for a single second of the (short) remainder of the journey back. Beside her, she could sense Castle's confusion, and when he left the coach, he was beginning to acquire an air of almost-worry. Perfect. Confusion and worry never allowed Castle to think straight.

Her planning didn't stop her being in the perfect position to be snuggled in on the walk back to the hotel – admittedly, she hadn't planned that, it had just happened. She preserved perfect propriety and equanimity, although, sadly, Castle seemed not to have become more worried or confused.

Castle was rapidly becoming unconfused and unworried. Earlier, he had indeed been a little of both. However, he'd spotted a small degree of smug satisfaction in Beckett's expression, which made him think that she was just trying to mess with him – which was fine. A bit of playful messing in both directions would simply add a little spice to their sexual sauce. Of course, the best outcome would be that he...um... _dealt_ with it. In the naughtiest possible way, of course. He wondered which of them would start the game again first – and how?

He began to plot.

He'd rather that Beckett began the game, but he had no intention of allowing her to play out anything that involved her being less than enthusiastically turned towards him by the time they got back to Manhattan.

Ah. He had it.

"I know what you're doing," he said smugly. She managed a glare. Castle readily produced a gaze that said _you were naked in my bed and I know exactly what you look like utterly undone_. The glare upped its wattage to maximum. Castle's sunny gaze didn't alter one whit. "You're trying to play it cool." He smirked. "Trying to fool me into thinking you're not going to play." His expression turned possessive, predatory and feral. Beckett tensed in his grip, and a very fine line of colour traced her cheekbones. So he _was_ right. "But you will." He leaned in, and lowered his voice to a sex-infused, dangerous baritone. "Because you liked it when I pinned you against a door and stripped you naked. You'll like it again. Badass Beckett likes big men who can take charge when you want them to, and here I am." The line of colour flared. "Now you're thinking about it, aren't you? Thinking about what I did to you and how you responded and gave in and wanted more. You want more now, don't you? You're already wet, aren't you? You want me to touch you." He breathed slowly. "But you're going to have to wait." She made a small, involuntary noise.

"We're at the hotel. The car should be here any minute," he said in his normal tones, as if he hadn't spent the last few moments winding her up. Her fulminating, ferocious glare was sweetly satisfying.

In the car, Beckett fastened her seatbelt with a decided clunk. Castle, by contrast, clicked his lightly into place and followed up with a well-placed hand on her knee. She shivered, which was also very satisfying.

Oh. Oh, _fuck_ , Beckett. That was upping the ante with a vengeance. Oh, _fuck_. There wasn't a privacy screen in that car, either. He'd have to stay totally quiet and _how_ was he supposed to do that when she'd gone straight for the main event? Her hand was palming across him and gently squeezing and _fuck_ she was going to do this for the whole drive, wasn't she? He thought frantically of ice, and when that failed to work because she'd _told_ him that she had a trick with ice cubes and he couldn't stop wondering what it was now he'd thought about it, imagined all sorts of horrible things.

Absolutely none of it was proof against Beckett's wicked, _wicked_ fingers. She wasn't even looking at him – oh _God_ – as she opened his zipper and slipped her hand inside: she was gazing placidly out of the car window and smiling inscrutably as she stroked him and he grabbed her wrist and removed her hand and tried desperately to calm down and tidy himself without forgetting where he was and using all his skill to do the same mischief to her because all he wanted to do right now was pull up her skirt and take her with his hand until she couldn't stop the noises and – oh thank God they were pulling into the airport.

He was out of the car as fast as he could manage. Beckett exited looking totally cool, calm and collected. Demure, in fact, as if she hadn't just been committing indecent acts in the back of a town car. When they were back in Manhattan, she was going to find out that _that_ had been a very bad – or very good – idea.

"Time to go home," he said, forcing his tone to casual, but then he lost all casualness. "Where I'm going to deal with you _properly_."

"Oh?" Beckett said. "You think?"

"I don't _think_ " –

"Very true," she snickered.

"I _know_. You, my dear detective, are going to pay for that piece of indecency."

She smirked at him. "Nope. I'm going to go home."

"Sure you are. And I'm going with you."

Her eyebrows elevated. "Says who?"

"Me."

"I."

"What?"

"I do. Not 'me'. Where's your grammar gone?"

Castle thought that it was probably still in the town car along with most of his game, but he wasn't going to let Beckett know that.

"Manhattan, just as I will. We'll catch up with it in your apartment." That intensely irritating eyebrow rose again. Castle's now exhausted patience gave out, and his total frustration took over. "No. I've been perfectly clear. This isn't stopping here and you aren't going to pretend it was a vacation fling for another second. You're just messing with me and while you can do dirty talk and sexy games as much as you like – because I sure will – you know and I know that this isn't just a fling so get over it, Beckett, because this is for real." He hauled her in and kissed her hard and deep and long, big hands pressing over her ass and grinding her into him. "No blowing hot and cold to mess with me."

"You started it," she pointed out. "You're the one who spent the coach journey pretending you didn't want to kiss me. Trying to make me think you were blowing hot and cold. Hoist with your own petard, Castle," she purred evilly, and started to move away.

Castle spun her straight back into his chest and held on. "Nuh-uh. No running away. You belong right here." He kissed her again, possessive and passionate. "C'mon. Let's go home." He wrapped one strong arm around her and tucked her close into his side. She rubbed against him like some big cat, pleased to play and purr, and then detached to pull her suitcase along. Of course, that left one hand free to be taken in his, and so he did.

Her hand remained in his at all possible opportunities all the way through check-in, lounge, gate and boarding, and then, with a small change in alignment so that he was still holding her slim span but their linked hands rested on her knee, on board. She leaned her head on his shoulder, the ends of her hair tickling his neck: unwontedly and unconsciously affectionate in a way she hadn't been before: not once in that forced vacation had she been so. Hedgehog-Beckett hadn't exactly been affectionate, in Castle's book.

Nor, of course, had he. More...um...aroused.

Well, that could change. He turned towards her, and stretched his free arm around her shoulders to hold her in place, his fingers softly stroking: she gave a tiny, contented mew and snuggled into him. As swiftly, she was apparently asleep. Castle wasn't entirely convinced of her slumber, but when coffee was offered and she didn't twitch, he concluded that she really was out. He supposed that, collectively, there hadn't been a whole lot of sleeping on her vacation, realised he was also a little tired, and slid into sleep himself, balanced precariously with his cheek on her head.

They were woken by the tannoy announcing "Ten minutes to landing". Castle removed himself shortly before Beckett's eyes opened.

She made a cross moue. "I was asleep," she complained.

"We'll be home soon."

Beckett yawned and wished she were home right then.

"The car's waiting," Castle said, consulting his phone. "Let's go."

In the car, Beckett found herself gathered in without any hesitation and encouraged to be snuggled close. That was...unexpected. Not the gathered-in piece, but the snuggle. Snuggling hadn't formed part of the picture up till that point. Cuddling in, holding in place, wrapping around, yes, sure, all of those; but that gesture was more...um...affectionate? Where did that come from? More to the point, did she like it?

( _Don't be dumber than you already are,_ said the brainworm, which should have stayed in New Orleans, drowning in Hurricane cocktails or preferably the subject of voodoo death magic. _Use the brain you're supposed to have and get with the programme. Castle's said he's not going to let this drop, so now he's providing more than just hot sex. And of course you like it, you complete freaking idiot. I told you, you adore being petted. You should be a cat. Anyway, he did snuggle you in already and you loved that too. Dumbass_ , it added grumpily. _Or maybe it's early senility_.)

So she had loved it. So she loved it (oh, God, what had happened to her? She didn't _do_ sappy) again. So _obviously_ she should simply snuggle more closely and enjoy it. So she did.

She found (again) that Castle was broad, muscular, and perfectly sized for snuggling into. She inhaled the slight scent of his cologne, and relaxed into him, bonelessly. ( _See? Cat._ She was not. The brainworm was as dumb as it had called her.) Pleasingly, he curled arms around her. If it wasn't for seatbelts, she would have curled up in his lap. Damn safety.

The ride was swift, for once. Beckett got out at her apartment, and was entirely unsurprised that Castle followed her. She swayed her hips enticingly, which, also entirely unsurprisingly, resulted in an arm around her with a hand on that same swaying hip.

He tugged her fully against him in the elevator: placed a butterfly kiss on her lips and chased it with a tantalising flicker of tongue, gone when she half-opened for more.

"Not here," he murmured, which was definitely not fair or fun, but plastered over his front she suspected exactly why. "I don't want to have to stop." Sounded good to Beckett. Her tiredness had quite disappeared: dissolved in the heat spreading everywhere her body touched him. He might not be kissing her, but his hands were firmly cupping her ass, and his fingers were teasing up the fullness of her skirt.

The elevator arrived at her floor far too quickly. Or alternatively, far too slowly. If it had been slower, he'd have got to somewhere useful. If it had been faster, they'd have been in her apartment already, and he'd have started something much more overt. Still, there they were at her door, and there was Castle crowding against her and making his feelings known, and the privacy of her apartment was a lot better than an elevator.

And it was a lot more necessary.

Castle wasn't wasting any time at all: spinning her into his arms and as her skirt flared in the turn landing one hand below it, the other gripping her skull and angling her for fast, hard possession without a single opportunity for her to fight back.

Why fight? She sank into it and surrendered. His hand on her ass stroked firmly, flickering between her legs to slide and pull the thin fabric covering her already-soaked flesh, his mouth moved to nip at her ear and her neck, low enough that a collared shirt would cover any mark, hard enough to claim her and elicit a soft, needy moan.

"Mine," he rasped. "All hot, all wet, all mine." Her dress hit the floor an instant later, her bra followed, his lower hand rolled her panties down and in one fast movement he ducked to sweep them off and return to her mouth before her brain had caught up with events. "Just the way you liked it the first time. Completely naked and totally mine."

Her deft fingers whipped his shirt buttons open, followed up with his belt buckle and pants zipper, and shoved them down.

"Fair's fair," she said, before he kicked his clothes away and pressed one hard thigh between her legs, scraping rough hair over her and holding her still so that she couldn't grind down on him.

"Fair? I didn't notice you being _fair_ in the car to the airport." He kissed her deeply, pinning her between his body and the wall, using all that considerable muscle to keep her there. "So I'm not going to be _fair_ either." His thigh moved just as she wanted, and she mewled and tried to move with it. "Ever got off on someone's leg?"

"Why?" she challenged.

"Just wondered." He scraped again, and again, and she squirmed and panted and tried to move as he kissed her, parting her legs with his. "Because it won't happen right now."

"Bet?"

His thigh slipped away, his stance widened and took her with him, and she was left with nothing touching her core, desperate for friction and finding none.

"Bet," he purred. "See, I've got all the aces here."

Beckett wasn't quite so sure. After all, her hands were – oh. Oops. Not only did he have a firm grip on her hands, Castle's eyes had diverted from her to wander around her main room, and... Oh shit.

( _You don't mean that_ , muttered the brainworm.)

Phew. He'd missed them. ( _You don't mean that either_.) From the look in his eyes, Castle had had every intention of spending yet another night proving just how much pleasure he – and she – could glean from keeping her on the edge for as long as possible. He leaned forward into her, and her lips parted – and he moved past them to nibble seductively on her ear.

"You were naughty, Beckett. You were teasing me." The voice was velvet – and villainous, promising all sorts of deliciously pleasurable vices. "That's not nice." Villainy increased. "If you aren't nice, I won't be nice. Consequences." She flooded instantly. The last time he'd said that word... he meant to have her begging. Suddenly, she realised he hadn't missed a single thing in her room. "This time, though, we've got the right sort of bedstead." He smiled very slowly. "And there's a pair of handcuffs right there."

"You'll look good in cuffs."

"I do. Shirt cuffs, with cufflinks." The slow smile was dangerously predatory, and his grip firm. "But not nearly as good as you'll look screaming my name." He paused, and dragged a single broad finger through her sodden core. "You're so ready. Let's play."

He simply hoisted her up, one hand and arm under her ass, the other catching her around her shoulders, walked towards her bedroom and picked up her cuffs along the way. He didn't even have the decency to be breathing hard, though other matters were certainly hard. She tried to wriggle on to his hardness, and achieved only a gentle but meaningful tap on her backside.

"None of that. I'll decide the plays now. You'll have other chances." His smile turned sunny. "I'm sure you're already thinking of what you'll do."

She gave another determined wriggle, and Castle gasped. "You bet I am," she whispered. "You have _no_ idea."

He tapped her ass again. "Nor do you. Because I already know that you like the cuffs. Which means that conquering Badass Beckett will be especially sweet."

"You like them too," she panted out.

"Sometimes," he agreed. "Giving up control can be...liberating. You should try it more often." He dropped her on the bed. "Starting now." In surprisingly swift movements, her wrists were enclosed and pulling against the spindles of the headboard. Castle, fully erect, watched her stretch out and flex, and only just managed, from the jerk of his knees, not to fall on her right then. Cuffs, hm? That didn't mean that she couldn't drive him absolutely wild. "Now then," he mused. "Where to start?"

"I want" –

"Uh-uh. _I_ want. And what I want, I get."

His voice was low, soft, and commanding. It went straight to Beckett's core and stroked her erotically. Still, she wasn't going to give in without a fight.

"I want you to come here and – what are you doing?"

He was wandering around her bedroom, examining the furniture and her vanity unit.

"Taking advantage," he said mildly, which was instantly worrying.

"What?" she squawked.

"Since you can't shoot me, I'm taking advantage of your current position."

" _Taking advantage_?"

"Yep. I intend to discover all your secrets. Mysteries, my dear Beckett, are there to be solved." He wanders back to the bed. "You have lots of mysteries." He sat down, and idly placed a large hand over her thigh. She gasped as his fingers traced the inner surface. "I'll enjoy discovering them." His fingers wandered a little higher, and she tried to move towards him. "But right now, I'll enjoy discovering you. Every inch of you."

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers._


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

When she got out of these, Beckett decided, she was going to use them on Castle and he would _beg_. And while she was in them, she was going to use her other wiles on Castle and he would _still_ beg. Oh yes. He had no idea at all. None. But right then, she'd let him expend considerable time and all the talents of his mouth, hands and body on making her very, very happy indeed. Win-win. She smiled beautifully and gave herself up to Castle's ministrations without a qualm.

He sat there on her bed, running his eyes up and down her from the hands loosely raised over her head all the way to her delicately painted toenails.

"You like what you see," she purred, without a hint of a question, and arched her back a little so her breasts were temptingly presented. Being cuffed didn't mean that she'd given up all, or indeed any, control. His eyes were already dilated and dark.

He didn't answer, instead running his hands over her arms, up to the cool metal and then down again, slowly, to rest at her shoulders and then to cup her face gently.

"I don't want to hurry," he said. "I want to take my time, and discover you slowly. Slow and easy."

"We just got back from the Big Easy," she quipped.

"I'm sure we can enjoy a different Big Easy. I wanna take it slow," he repeated.

That was a little odd. There she was, naked, aroused and open, and he suddenly wanted to be slow and easy? Not hard, hot and assertive like he'd been insinuating for the last ten minutes? She pulled her head up and peered at him. Yep, definitely hard.

"Those handcuffs aren't so I can wreak my wicked wiles on you - well, they sort of are, but actually they're to stop you wreaking _your_ wicked wiles on me and bringing this evening to a premature end. Your hands are _evil_ , and this evening is all for you. Of course" – he looked incongruously saintly – "I'm going to have lots of fun too."

Wait, _what_?

"If you're left to your own devices, you do dreadful evil – and very sexy – things and it all turns into a wonderful" – just as well he'd added that word, or she might have been a bit upset – "scorching hot mess in no time at all."

"You admit it?"

"Both of us are a mess. Which is great, but... I want to take it slow." She could see just how great he found it. The word was _throbbing_.

"But? Slow?"

( _You know what the but is, dumbass! How did I get stuck in your concrete head, huh? I could have been a contender, you know. I could have had Tempe Brennan. At least she was a certified genius. You give a whole new meaning to denial_. The brainworm huffed and grumped. _He wants to love you, fool_!)

"But I want something different." He stopped, almost awkwardly, and kissed her, gently, running the tip of his tongue along the seam of her lips, already parting for him, but he didn't dive in and raid. "See, if your hands were free, you'd be pulling me down and fighting me for control of the kiss and it would be scorching hot and fabulous and I'd really enjoy it and so would you but..."

"But _what_?" she clipped.

"But I wanna _make love_ with you, not just play games," he blurted out, and her head flomped back on the pillow, her whole body slack with the shock.

( _Told you so! Told you so!_ gloated the brainworm. _Told you so!_ Why wouldn't it just die already?)

She stared up at wide, dazed blue eyes. Castle, it was evident, really hadn't wanted to make that particular admission.

"Uh?" she managed, which was truly not articulate.

"I don't just want really hot sex. I want _you_. All of you."

Beckett allowed that to seep into her frizzled brain (and why hadn't it frizzled the brainworm, huh?).

"And you think putting me in cuffs will manage that?"

"Er..."

"Tell me, Castle, which part of handcuffs in bed matches up with _making love_?"

"Ur..."

"Stopping me doing what I wanted to."

"Er..." He turned to her and gathered his words. "But all you wanted to do was turn me on and heat me up and play games and provoke me and you _wouldn't_ slow down and I couldn't slow down once you started that because you're just so hot I can't think" – good, it had totally worked on him – "and I had to find a way to _stop_ you so we could have that...and I thought you liked them so I thought it would give me a chance to..."

"You could just have asked me," she drawled.

"Uh?"

"You could just have asked me. Used your words, wordsmith."

"You kept _kissing_ me and how was I supposed to talk round your tongue?"

"I can think of several points," she flirted. " _My_ mouth might have been occupied" – she licked her lips –

"See, you're doing it again. Trying to heat up the situation."

She lifted her head the fraction possible without hurting her shoulders or cricking her neck. He almost looked hurt. He also looked very aroused, still. She found a modicum of compassion. (She also found the brainworm beating her about the head. _Tell him!_ it ordered. _Stop hiding behind snark and badassery. He's pretty much told you so stop freaking messing this up!_ )

"Undo me," she said, in a very different tone. He stared. "Keys are on the table where the cuffs were."

Castle hopped off the bed, and Beckett admired his truly excellent ass – and was vaguely embarrassed by the scratches on his back – all the way out of her bedroom door. Then she admired his truly excellent endowment all the way back in.

"You won't..." he trailed off.

"Undo me."

Castle did. There was a significant pause, and then Beckett reached up and stroked down his arms, back up again, rested her hands lightly on his shoulders and then cupped his face. Realisation dawned as he recognised the sequence. She stretched up, and kissed him as delicately as he had, moments ago, kissed her.

"Make love with me, Castle," she murmured softly, and lay back again, hands back to resting lightly on his shoulders, not pulling him down, or over her, or teasing him, but soft and yielding, letting him have his way, but her fingers moving gently, an invitation not a summons.

"You mean it?"

"Yeah." She smiled. "Come kiss me."

Castle rearranged himself to lie beside her, propped on an elbow with an arm under her neck, gently playing with a wisp of her hair. To his mild astonishment, despite her words, she simply petted his shoulder, and then took his free hand and put it not on, but between, her breasts, her own staying over it, twining their fingers.

"We can go as slow and easy as you like." She blushed slightly. "I... I'd like that too."

Castle gazed down at her. "You like... I want to start by just cuddling you." He curled the arm under her neck around to her shoulder. "I thought you wanted the...um...other stuff. You...um...kept inviting it..."

"Giving me what I wanted? I thought it was what you wanted." Beckett was a lot less embarrassed than Castle seemed to be. "I did like it. Do. That doesn't mean I want it all the time. Unless you want one long fight for control? Which I'd win, because I'm trained to take people apart with my bare hands."

"No..."

"Good. Though it seemed like you enjoyed it a lot as well," she grinned.

"Yeah, but not all the time."

"Anyway, that was NOLA, and this is Manhattan, and it seemed like it was how you liked it, and like I said, I liked it, so I don't see a problem. I'd have said if I didn't." She smirked evilly. "The toys are under the bed..." He made a little noise of protest. "Just teasing. I like snuggling too. Like this." She wriggled a little, and ended up curled against his broad chest, her own arm over him and her legs entangling to rest against and between his. "See? Snuggled."

"You fit perfectly," Castle murmured, and rumbled contentedly as she petted him some more.

"You give good snuggle," she returned.

There was a little space of quiet peacefulness, in which snuggling did not diminish and mutual petting gradually expanded. A little while after that, Castle's lips grazed Beckett's hair, as hers flitted over his neck. His wandered downwards, along the edge of her cheekbone, landed lightly on the tip of her nose, and met hers as they wandered upwards over his late-night stubble. The meeting of mouths was soft, careful, and exploratory: completely different from every other time and kiss. It could have been their first kiss.

They stayed gently kissing for some time, delicately investigating each others' mouth, a slow burn beginning to build, hands not yet dangerously grasping, but sliding through cherry-scented hair, over broad shoulders, stroking, not gripping or clawing, soft fingertips, not sharp nails or hard hands; although their legs were entwined there was no grinding against his thigh, no pushing against her centre.

Still, they were naked in bed together, and slow burn wasn't the same as no burn. Gradually the kisses became deeper, still mutual but far harder, more possessive; hands began to roam, to find damp heat, hot hardness; bodies slid against each other; slow burn became flame became firestorm and then flamed out, spent: all that remained the soft slowing of rapid breaths and then quiet sighs of contentment, and then the even sounds of sleep, still wrapped together.

* * *

"Ughhhhh," Beckett groaned as her alarm went off, slapped at it to silence it, and tried to hide her head under her pillow – oh. That wasn't a pillow. That was an arm, and it wasn't her arm. Oh. _Oh!_ That was Castle's arm, and this was Manhattan, and he'd come home with her and uhhhhh she'd _thought_ it would just be more spectacular sex but he'd wanted gentle and it had been so good too and now what was she going to do?

( _Idiot_ , snipped the brainworm, _you're going to do exactly what you want to do rather than screwing up. You're going to snuggle in and tonight you're going to go on a date._ Date? _Yes. Date. He wants a relationship, though God knows why he thinks you have a brain because I'm not seeing it._ )

Beckett ignored almost all of that commentary. She hadn't time to snuggle in, because she was desperately in need of a shower and – unlike the infuriating ( _that's because I'm right_ , it said, completely erroneously) brainworm – she had to get to work. She didn't ignore the word _date_ , mainly because it refused to leave her mind as she disentangled herself from the giant octopus formerly known as Rick Castle, which was still peacefully asleep and quite adorably rumpled, tousled and stark naked, had a shower, dressed and applied her make-up, and then succumbed to her instincts and kissed Castle till her lip gloss was all gone.

"Uh?" he mumbled.

"Work. I have to go."

"No go."

"Yes go. Coffee in the kitchen. Towel in the bathroom. Key on the table so you can lock up. See you in the precinct."

She whisked out of the door.

On the journey to the precinct, she paid considerably more attention to a nascent plan than to the traffic, but fortunately arrived unscathed. The plan was almost fully formed. She sent a couple of e-mails, and then put her head down to work.

"Yo, Beckett."

"Hey."

The boys had arrived, their usual three seconds apart. Beckett occasionally suspected them of planning it to give the scandalmongers something to gossip about.

"Hey, guys. Anything new?"

"Nah. Anything new with you?" Espo asked with an evil grin. "A four day vacation with Writer-Boy? Gotta be something."

"Yeah," Ryan pitched in. "I mean, New Orleans? It's got a reputation... and magic."

"Magic? You believe in _magic_?" Espo derided.

"You telling me you don't? I've seen you cross the road so you don't have to walk past the door of that witch shop on East 9th."

"Do not!" Espo scowled.

"Do so," Ryan pressed the advantage.

Beckett returned to her papers while the boys continued their playground antics. Sadly, they got tired of the squabble before either of them had forgotten the main point.

"Anyway, how was your vacation" – Espo tried an eyebrow waggle which didn't really have the right effect – "with Castle?"

"Perfectly pleasant," Beckett said coolly. ( _Liar!_ yelled the brainworm, _but don't tell this pair of numbskulls that_.) "Nice weather, not like here" – she glared pointedly at the grey drizzle dampening the windows – "nice food."

"And?" Ryan interrogated.

"Don't tell us Castle didn't make a single move."

"Castle was a perfect gentleman. Which is more than you two are being. But if you're asking about my private life, let's start with yours. How's your 'open relationship' with Jenny going, Ryan? And Espo, have you managed to find anything that's closer to female than your gun? Last I heard you hadn't managed a date for three months, but you'd been at the range every night. Could those two things _possibly_ be connected?"

Ryan and Espo were suddenly red-faced and finding many things to do elsewhere. Beckett's tones had gone from cool to glacial across her commentary, and both of them knew that that heralded trouble.

Montgomery had no such qualms. He oozed out from his sanctum and approached Beckett with a wide and cheerful grin.

"Good vacation, Beckett?"

"Yes sir."

"Castle still alive?"

"Yes sir. Just."

Montgomery smirked happily. "Good. I need to win back some of the cash he fleeced me out of." He oozed off again, without asking any difficult questions. Knowing when to interrogate – and when _not_ to – was one of the reasons he was a Captain. From his swift glance around his bullpen, that was a lesson Detectives Ryan and Esposito were yet to learn. Besides which, he didn't need to ask. Beckett had acquired a very fine line of colour, indeed almost invisible, when he'd enquired about Castle. Perfect.

When Castle turned up, bearing coffee, the boys hauled him off in short order. They returned in equally short order, sulking. Castle emerged from the break room with a sunny, exceptionally bland smile and didn't comment. The boys' huffs and humphs told Beckett quite enough. She smiled nastily to herself and didn't do a single thing to let them off the hook.

By lunchtime, she was invisibly fretful about the lack of responses to her e-mails. She really had wanted to execute her plans, but the universe was not co-operating. Inside her head, she groused and grumped. ( _Aww_ , said the brainworm _, aren't you cute? You wanna do something nice for your boyfriend,_ it singsonged, _and you're sulking because it's not all in place. You know what that means, don't you?_ She nuked it again, even though that hadn't worked the first time. It didn't work that time, either, which improved her mood not at all.)

Early in the afternoon, fortunately for the bullpen as a whole and Beckett's fraying patience, she received satisfactory replies to each of her e-mails. The remainder of the afternoon passed in relative peacefulness, though the grumbling from the Ryan-Esposito black hole didn't diminish. Around four, she took a short break, declining any accompaniment. Castle joined the boys in the scowling nexus of disgruntlement.

At shift end, Beckett watched the boys depart, and then tapped Castle to rouse him from the game on his phone.

"Are you busy tonight?" she asked, adding a sultry undertone.

"No... you know Alexis is away. Mother can look after herself – I hope," he added.

"Good. Let's get out of here."

Castle regarded the Beckett-bulldozer with some confusion: unsurprising, since she was tapping her fingers at him very impatiently and giving the clear impression that if he didn't shift his ass into high gear she would assist him with the barrel of her Glock.

"What's going on?"

"Wait and see," she said tartly, which was really not nice at all because she knew perfectly well that he, Castle, hated having to wait for almost anything. (well, except in bed, where he was happy to wait for many things to happen, starting with Beckett – hm, there was a thought. Maybe she was taking him home again?)

When they completely bypassed her cruiser and Beckett hailed a cab, Castle was even more confused. When she gave the driver the address so quietly that he couldn't hear a thing, though, he started to become suspicious. And when they arrived at a discreet door in a side street with almost nothing to indicate where they were, he returned to complete confusion. All the while Beckett radiated happily smug contentment and an aura of self-satisfaction, and firmly refused to answer a single question. She did hold his hand, which wasn't much consolation but, Castle supposed plaintively, was better than nothing.

"Where are we?" he asked, as Beckett flatly denied him the opportunity to pay for the taxi.

"You'll see," she smirked, which was unutterably _mean_. He pouted at her. Astonishingly, she stretched up a little and planted a kiss on his protruding lip. "Have some patience."

"I'd rather have some Beckett," he muttered darkly. She snickered, and opened the door.

Castle's jaw dropped. Inside was a tiny, beautiful restaurant: a soaring conservatory roof of clear glass allowing the evening light to seep softly in; trailing plants over bamboo trellis, even a zen-like polished granite sphere with water flowing over it.

"How have I never found this?" he gasped. "It's gorgeous. What is it?"

"You'll see," she said wickedly. "Yes," as she turned to the server, "reservation for two – Beckett. Thanks."

Castle frankly stared around as they were led to a table set for two. He didn't quite manage a long enough look at anyone's plate to find out the cuisine of this restaurant, and when he sat down he was no better informed.

"Don't I even get a menu?" he pleaded.

"No. The meal is all picked out already. Patience, Castle. Patience." The evil witch wouldn't do a thing to satisfy his curiosity. It wasn't fair.

When food started to arrive, in many small dishes with different contents, Castle was still completely at a loss. He copied Beckett's technique of taking small portions of each dish, and entirely forgot about investigating the type of restaurant in favour of simply eating as many different items as possible, since each one was more delicious than the last. A bottle of wine accompanied the meal, which he recognised, and raised a mental eyebrow with respect. Beckett clearly knew more than she had let on about wine.

About halfway through the meal, disgracefully slowly, it dawned on him that he was being taken on a date. He just about managed not to blurt that out, or to reveal his total astoundment. He was never _taken_ on dates. He was pursued, hounded, flirted with, hit on (not that he used to mind any of it, to be truthful) to take others on dates, or Beckett suggested Remy's at the end of a case though she would – and did – go without him if he'd had to decline, but he'd never been taken out. Even if he didn't have a clue what the restaurant was, from the eclectic but complementary selection of dishes, that would have been enough to make it a fabulously wonderful evening. Naturally, his delighted astonishment at the whole production (and _how_ had Beckett managed it and more importantly how had _he_ never found this tiny, paradisal restaurant before?) didn't prevent him appreciating each tiny gourmet dessert, though it was noticeable that Beckett's book of date etiquette didn't encompass allowing him more than a third of each dessert item.

"Time to go," Beckett said after they'd completed the meal with excellent coffee.

"But the check...?"

"Taken care of." That didn't invite argument or comment.

"Okay," he said amiably.

There was a short pause, in which an air of slight hesitation became apparent.

"Um... would you like to come back?" she asked.

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers._

 _Surely you didn't all think that there wouldn't be proper romance, did you?_


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Castle stared at her. She needed to ask?

"Of course," he said emphatically, rather than the casual _sure_ which had been on the tip of his tongue. Beckett instantly relaxed, collected his hand and curled it around her waist, and nestled neatly into the crook of his arm.

"What _is_ that restaurant? And why didn't you tell me about it before? It's wonderful."

"Never thought about it."

"So why now?" he asked mischievously.

Beckett shrugged.

"C'mon, that's not an answer."

"You found nice restaurants in NOLA. I figured I'd find you one here."

"It was lovely," Castle said, in default of ruining the chance of a very pleasant rest of the evening by saying something like _aw, how sweet, you really like me don't you_? which would undoubtedly not help at all. "But you still haven't told me what it was."

"It's a tasting restaurant," she admitted. "They never have the same menu twice. They just do lots of little plates – like tapas, but they don't just do Spanish dishes, they do everywhere."

"It was wonderful," he repeated. "Will you give me the name?"

"Sure." She reeled it off and he tapped it into his phone, one handed to avoid letting go of her.

"There. That's definitely one for the future." He smiled. "But you were going to take me home," he said plaintively.

"The lost-puppy look doesn't do it for me, Castle," she snarked.

"I don't want to be your _puppy_ ," he pointed out.

"If you were, maybe you'd _stay_ when I told you to, rather than running into dangerous situations that you aren't trained for."

"Where's the fun in that? Anyway, I'm good in dangerous situations."

"You're not supposed to get into dangerous situations. You're supposed to observe, not participate."

"But participation is so much more fun," Castle murmured, "don't you think? Observation is very...lonely."

"Depends," she riposted.

Castle dropped that line of conversation, which was rapidly descending towards the gutter (at least in his head), and waved down a handy taxi. "Yours?" he checked.

"Yep. But I'm paying for it."

Castle pouted. "Don't I get to give you anything tonight?"

Beckett's smile lit the cab. "Sure you do, if you behave now."

"Oh, I'll behave, Detective." He wrapped his arm around her, and played with a tendril of hair, curling gently around her ear. His other hand found its way to her knee, and entwined itself with hers. "Of course, you didn't specify the type of behaviour."

"Didn't I?" It was wholly disingenuous and insincere.

"No. How...imprecise of you."

"You'll just have to guess."

"I'm good at guessing," Castle pointed out, and smiled soulfully. "What's my prize for guessing right?"

"Wait and see."

On balance, and taking the previous night into account, Castle went for generally good behaviour being the correct option, and confined himself to tuckings-in, pettings of the knee, finger-twinings and the occasional tiny buss to her hair. It was an effort, but the effort was rewarded by Beckett continuing to nestle in, twine her fingers in return, and lean her head on his shoulder. As far as Castle was concerned, Beckett's block couldn't arrive soon enough. She was humming contentedly into his neck, very slightly off-key, but despite that it was vibrating down his nerves to leave him wholly aware of her.

Beckett paid the cab fare, but Castle practically had to handcuff himself not to interfere. He reminded himself sternly that it was her evening and he had to let her do it her way – or suffer (definitely _suffer_ ) the consequences.

Beckett would have been happy whichever type of behaviour Castle exhibited ( _yeah, because you're simply totally happy that he's here with you_ , snarked the brainworm), but the soft cosseting suited her very well and reassured her that the previous night hadn't been some sort of rogue brain-frazzle. ( _I told you_ , yelled the brainworm, _he's wanting more than hot sex_. She liked hot sex, she thought crossly. What was wrong with that? _Nothing_ , admitted the brainworm, rather sulkily. _But you love cuddles and cosseting too_. So? Didn't everyone? _Why the freaking hell don't you just admit that you're in love with him already?_ )

Uhhhhhhh _what_?

( _You're in love with him already. How many times do you need to hear it before it gets through your dumbass head? Didn't we have this conversation and you wouldn't believe it?_ )

Uhhhh?

( _You took him on a date. You've never taken anyone on a date. You wanted to make him happy. You've never bothered with that before either_. That wasn't true. _Yes it is._ It was not. She'd made Will very happy. _If that's your standard, I have a nice supply of slugs for you to date_. She stuffed the brainworm in a small oubliette and ignored its sniggers. If it wouldn't die, it could be imprisoned. It promptly wiggled out from the oubliette and smirked.)

"Beckett?" Castle said, "are you okay? Because you've been standing on the sidewalk for a full minute and if you're subject to petit mal seizures how have I never noticed before and how do you get to be a cop and if you weren't before should I take you to the ER and" –

"Stop. No seizures. No ER. I just... got distracted."

"I'm a huge distraction, but can't we be distracted inside? It's starting to rain."

"You won't melt," she snarked, but opened the door and achieved her apartment without any further fugues.

She shrugged out of her coat, kicked off her heels and put her gun and shield away while Castle divested himself of his own coat and padded to the couch.

"Coffee?" she said when she returned.

"I'm okay, thanks." He smiled hopefully. "Why don't you just come over here?"

Beckett redirected her feet from the kitchen to the main space and the couch. As she got there, Castle caught her neatly round the waist, and plopped her into his lap. She wriggled to become comfortable, and nestled in.

"You liked dinner?" she asked.

"It was great. I wouldn't have wanted the name if it wasn't." He cuddled her. "You can take me on another date any time you like."

"It..." she stopped, which was rather interesting, and then restarted, which was definitely interesting. "I guess it was."

Castle's jaw hit the floor coincident with both his eyebrows hitting the ceiling and Beckett burying her hot face in his neck. Unusually, he engaged brain before opening his mouth. "I liked it," he pointed out. "We should do more dates. Especially if you know more tiny gems like that restaurant."

Beckett emerged. "Wouldn't you like to know?" she grinned.

"You can show me them all," he grinned back. "But..."

"But?"

"If this is a date..."

"Ye-es?" she said suspiciously, and then grinned very evilly at him. "Something you want? Something you're expecting?" She peeped through her lashes mischievously, and paused for a second. "Something like this?" and she leaned in and kissed him, gently and far too briefly.

"Something like that, sure. But I was thinking of something a bit more like _this_ ," and he tipped up her chin, leaned down fractionally and kissed her a lot more enthusiastically. Beckett appeared to appreciate that, since she was kissing him back, passionately.

She was also undoing his shirt. That seemed a little unfair to Castle, who couldn't do the same to her t-shirt and couldn't pull it off her because she was inconveniently glued to his front with her arms around his neck. Accidentally strangling Beckett was not a good plan.

He forgot about removing her t-shirt almost immediately after she nibbled around his jaw to his ear and started to breathe suggestions into it in a husky murmur that went straight to his groin. Her hands wandered over his chest, and played insinuatingly with the firm edges of muscle, his flat nipples, the dusting of hair; following that last downward with a series of gentle scrapes which left him hopelessly aroused and were undoubtedly the reason that he failed to notice the sneaky opening of his pants until he was already captured and caged in her long, elegant fingers.

"I invited you on a date, Castle. This is my evening. Just" – she smirked – "lie back and think of Manhattan."

"Aw, surely I can do a bit more than that?"

Beckett's fingers moved. Castle grew within them. "Oh, you will. But you did all those sneaky nearly-dates" –

"They were so dates" –

"In NOLA," she finished, ignoring his interjection, "and you got your own way for all of them" –

"I did _not_! You flirted and teased and wound me up and left me hanging" –

"Who was it edging me for most of the night?"

"And you edged me for most of the day!"

"Anyway, my date, I get my own way. Just enjoy it." She smirked naughtily. "I did."

Castle did as he was told. He settled back and did his utmost not to indulge his instincts, which wanted to strip the navy t-shirt, the dress pants, and everything underneath and then make love to Beckett till they were both sated and exhausted and snuggled together. If he'd been truthful, he would have confessed to a certain degree of nervousness as to what Beckett might do – he wasn't at all convinced that she wasn't going to get him all hot and bothered (he already was all hot and bothered) and then keep him there all the rest of the evening whatever she'd said about not wanting to play games because she was pretty keen on being on top even if she'd done it with dirty talk and teasing and making him watch not touch – but... it was her turn. He gave himself up to her desires.

As soon as he did, she changed tack. She stopped purring filthy suggestions into his ear – though she could act on them any time she pleased – and moved back round to kiss him passionately but without the hard edge of demandingness with which she had begun. Her hand, however, was still committing dark and evil deeds and – _oh if you're going to do that Beckett can we find the bed now_ – it was wonderful but he had better think some cooling thoughts _right now oh fuck_ – never mind her hands, her mouth was _wicked_ and if that was where Beckett directing affairs for the evening got him he'd be her toy as often as she liked but he wasn't going to let on because...because... he'd had a good reason but he couldn't remember it and anyway he was totally enthralled and entranced by her in and out of bed and _oh Beckett please Beckett now Beckett_... he shattered.

When he came back to life she was snuggled up to him in his lap again, with a satisfied cat-who-got-the-cream smile. She'd undone him in no time at all...but, he realised, this time she hadn't made him beg (he'd done that all by himself), or made him wait, or... well, anything like that. She'd merely enjoyed herself. And him. And now she was all soft and snuggly and...well...kissable.

So he did.

He kissed her gently, without assertion or demands, in keeping with the previous night and her current demeanour. He was very aware that this was still her evening and her lead, even if she was presently lax and cuddly. Her return kisses were equally soft and teasing, and her hands were curled around his shoulder and middle, rather than arousing him again. His own hands slid around, untucking her t-shirt from her pants, and landing on smooth skin. She purred at him, and then leaned in for another kiss, gliding fingertips down over his pecs without a hint of a scratch; stroking tantalisingly, then raised her hands again and pushed his shirt off.

"That's not fair," Castle muttered. "I can't get at your shirt. You're in the way."

"You could use your words. For a writer, you're really bad at saying what you mean."

Castle snorted. "I'm bad at talking? You, who never says anything, are saying _I'm_ bad at talking?"

"I'm not saying you're bad at talking – you never stop talking. You don't say what you mean. You could just ask me..."

"May I take your shirt off, Detective?" Castle asked with exaggerated courtesy and a dose of sarcasm.

"You may." She unglued herself and wriggled to assist its departure.

Castle managed not to gape at the latest version of made-for-sin underwear, but he examined it closely. "How many pretty scraps do you _have_?" he wondered.

"Lots," Beckett smirked. "Lots and lots and lots."

He smiled slowly and very seductively. "Oh, goody," he drawled. "Lots to uncover."

"You're already...hm...uncovered." Oh. So he was. He was sure she'd put him away... when had she done that?

"That's not fair, Beckett. Why aren't you as uncovered as I am?"

"You haven't suggested it."

"May I uncover you?" There was no sarcasm this time.

"Yes."

He didn't need another invitation: deftly flicking open the button and unzipping her pants, lifting her to whisk them away. Pants were definitely an unnecessary addition to a Beckett in his lap who was purring and pleased to play. Besides, they covered up some more of the prettiest sinful scraps he'd seen in his life, and if he'd known earlier about that particular aspect of the apparently buttoned up Beckett he'd have shadowed her on an out-of-state visit months ago.

But at that precise moment, he was shirtless and rather uncovered, Beckett was (by her own request) wearing two miniature scraps of lace, and the time for thinking was quite indubitably _over_.

Especially as Beckett was sliding off his knee (not good), tugging him up (neutral, depending on why), pushing off his pants (definitely good) and leading him to her bedroom (excellent).

She stepped back from him, surveyed him from head to foot with an expression he'd never seen before (or never taken time while in NOLA to see), and although the little golden flecks of arousal were dancing in her eyes there was far more to her mien than simple, overwhelming lust. An astonishing conviction began to form in the remaining shreds of Castle's mind. Suddenly she smiled mischievously.

"I think you could take your socks off," she grinned.

Castle sat down on the bed and stripped off his socks.

"Perfect," Beckett said with satisfaction, and pushed him down so he was flat on his back in her bed. "There." She regarded him again, slowly and arousingly. Castle didn't need more arousing. Simply looking at Beckett was all that he needed to be totally aroused: deep blue lace over cream curves, cut to flatter and enhance, made for delight.

"Come here?" he said hopefully, still giving her the lead.

She slinked the two steps to the bed, and as she reached it he reached out and curved broad hands around her hips, not quite pulling as she extended hands to his shoulders and settled herself over him. She gave a small, contented sigh and then descended on his lips: gently seeking entrance and, when that was immediately given, raising the temperature by raiding and exploring to her heart's content. Castle wasn't behind in the exploring stakes, and let his hands wander freely over her. Shortly, her bra mysteriously fell off, and all his good intentions cindered in a flash. Conveniently, hers seemed to have gone walkabout too. She stopped kissing him, slid his boxers off, then smirked, sitting just where he would have wanted her and moving her hips very slightly.

Beckett was precisely where she had wanted to be. No games, but plenty of teasing, would be the order of her evening. ( _You'd better be planning to tell him_ , the brainworm growled. She ignored it.) She wiggled seductively to ensure that she was in the perfect alignment, watched Castle's eyes drop to her chest and then undertake a slow sweep down and up again, and wiggled a little more. He made a small whimpering noise, entirely inadvertently.

"What do you want?" she asked teasingly.

"You. Just you." He sat up – wow, he must have been doing some ab crunches – and gathered her in to kiss her. "Just you," he repeated, "right here with me."

She certainly was right there with him: held firmly against his chest with his fingers tracking her spine.

"What do you want?" he asked in return.

( _Tell him! Tell him!_ howled the brainworm, waving a set of pompoms. She didn't need its encouragement, thank you. Brainworms should not be encouraged at any time.)

"You," she admitted. "Just you, too."

( _Finally!_ )

She kissed him, and took them both sideways to hit the bed so that they still faced each other; wrapped a leg around him to keep him where he should be, and put her mouth to his ear.

"Make love to me, Castle."

He ran his hands down over her sides and rolled the panties away with the end of the movement, leaving him at the right point to lavish attention on her proud breasts and hard nipples; while her hands explored and committed delicately, evilly erotic acts as he did. Every touch was slow and lingering, every taste flirted with sinfulness. Each gesture said as much as words ever could have done.

Sultry succeeded slow, seductive succeeded sultry, and as hands became more demanding, bodies closer, damp became wet and hard became iron, they moved together until Beckett wriggled and guided him in and rolled them both so that she rose above him and slid down and that was the closest he'd come to heaven this side of life. It had only been six days since he shadowed her all the way to NOLA with a plan for seduction and now she was as completely, totally entrapped as he was.

He couldn't have cared less. He'd caught Beckett just as much as she'd caught him.

And then he stopped thinking altogether because there was nothing in the world better than the feeling of Beckett about him and moving with him and being _his_. It really didn't matter which of them was on top, him or her or neither, because any way they came, they were together.

Afterwards, showered and sated, they fell asleep cuddled up with each other, Castle's nose buried in Beckett's hair; her hand clasping his as it lay over her, keeping her safe, keeping him close, and in the morning she was still tucked against him: woke with a sleepy smile.

When she got home that evening, sunflowers in blue-splashed china vases had invaded her apartment, and in the middle of them sat Castle, himself smiling like the sun.

"Like them?" he asked happily, already knowing from her blazing smile that she did.

"Love them," she said. "Love you."

 _ **Fin.**_

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers._

 _A new story is in progress. I hope to finish it and post as part of the summer Ficathon._

 _Just in case any of you might have missed it, my original novel, Death in Focus, by SR Garrae, is available on Amazon._


End file.
